The first time my parents tried to kill me, they ordered crème brûlée. Twenty minutes into dessert, the world narrowed to the polished floor of Rosemont Grill, the burn of glass in my lungs, and the sound of my father telling a stranger I was just being dramatic. I watched the paramedic lift that small orange bottle from the table and saw my father’s face change for half a second—just long enough to rip every old certainty out by the ro… Continues…
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