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Afterward, Mrs. Keller squeezed Mia’s shoulder.
“You did good,” she whispered.
Mia shook her head.
“I told the truth.”
“That’s doing good.”
Months later, when Mia rocked her daughter beside the crib, she sometimes looked at the little rose carved into the inside corner.
Her father had put it where only someone leaning close would see it.
That felt right.
Some love does not need an audience.
It just needs to remain.
The snow melted.
The porch was salted properly now.
The security camera stayed where it was.
The small American flag by the steps faded a little in the sun.
And every time Mia lifted her daughter from that walnut crib, she remembered the morning she lay on the concrete and thought everything had been taken from her.
The crib.
The blanket.
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