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I spent the rest of the recess at Florian’s house. Most of the time my mother didn’t know I was over there, or even that I wasn’t at home. If she wasn’t still asleep when I left in the morning, she was repeating her usual questions from the breakfast table. Sometimes she’d be smiling to herself. At some point the school year started up again, and there were days I didn’t see her at all. On the weekends or during my downtime she was usually holed up in the cellar, painting or making clay figurines. “Productive self-help,” my father called it, though I wasn’t completely sure what that meant. On Sundays I liked to veg out on the leather sofa in our living room. My mother took the opportunity to creep up the stairs and show me, with a proud smile, what she’d created. “What do you think? Do you like it?” she’d say, all out of breath. There’d be a couple of figurines in her hands. They’d be sort of shaped like men with hats, or giraffes with long necks, but with the limbs still unformed and tangled up. I’d give her an encouraging nod. Countless figurines were already lined up on the hallway sideboard, pitiful souls that looked like they’d stepped out of a horror movie. •

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2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

Profile for cusoa