As far as I can remember, every Friday night was the same. I wore out the carpet between my bedroom and the front window, checking outfits and headlights that illuminated my quiet desperation. In vain, I played it cool. I didn’t care if he never showed, and my family pretended to believe me. I stared blankly at the bubbles dissolving in the kitchen sink, like it didn’t hurt when the moon fell, he stepped inside and turned his nose up at my plain eggs at midnight.

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