When Nadia finally peeled away the gauze, Warren stopped breathing for a second. Along her forearm was a delicate line of lemon blossoms surrounding six words written in my mother’s unmistakable handwriting: “Keep your heart soft. I love you.” Nadia had taken the words from the last birthday card Grandma ever gave her. Beside them was one tiny lemon, matching the magnet still holding the funeral bill to our refrigerator.
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