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September 1988

End of the Line

From a mother's of view. . .

The overhead bedroom light contrasted sharply with the gaping black hole where previously a window had held the outside air at bay. Slivers and chunks of glass lay scattered on the shag rug. I stared uncomprehendingly for several seconds at this destructive nightmare. It took no guesswork to know who was responsible. And with that realization, any idea I harbored about letting this latest violation of decency slide by dissolved in anger. I had felt anger toward him before but nothing compared to this. I believe, at that moment, I truly hated him.

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