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Unless something was wrong with HER. I shake the thought out of my head, telling myself that it's probably something very minor. Once in ogged the kitchen, on the phone, my father lets me have it. "Tiffany, your mother is in the hospital. I'm coming to get you tomorrow. Be ready." NO. I'm not going to believe it, ogged I'm pleading with him to tell me why, tell me what's wrong with ogged 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.
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