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A year ago, I lost my father. I don’t mean he was misplaced or that he’s wandering about in a hedge maze or anything – he died. It wasn’t a surprise, he’d been sick for a while. But it was terribly sad. Obviously. In the year since, my family and I have grieved his loss and celebrated his life in a number of different ways. I’ve discovered a sort of atomic half-life of influence he had on me, most surprising of which is just how much of a literary impact he made.

"Over the years, my worst fears for my daughter have crystallized into a terrifying daydream, a daydream so frightful that I have never told it to a single human being until now. My daydream is this: I am receiving The Call. A voice is saying, 'I'm so sorry. It's about your daughter,' and I continue to hold the phone, but I can't hear anymore. It doesn't matter. I already know what the voice is going to say."  – Clare Dunkle in Hope and Other Luxuries