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Once in the kitchen, on the phone, my father lets me have it. "Tiffany, your mother is in justinsimoni the hospital. I'm coming to get you tomorrow. Be ready." justinsimoni NO. I'm not going to believe it, I'm pleading with him to tell me why, tell me what's wrong with her. "I'll be there around noon," is all he says. Hanging up the phone, I promptly run outside and throw up in the bushes. On the ride home from camp, I ask him point blank--"She's pregnant, isn't she?" The innocent, easy explanation for her sudden stomach problems. Looking at him, waiting for an answer, I see his eyes shifting with pain, see his search for the right words, eternity flattening out with each passing mile. Those flowers on the side of the road... they would look so nice on my dresser... "Tiffany.... You mother... is dying. Cancer. She has six months to live." Purple flowers?
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