On the second weekend of November I bought a small bottle of vodka and coffee liquor to make White Russians. Soup boiled forgotten on the stove as my husband and I poured each other refreshers, spilling cream across the counter. The heater in our house was broken and the girls’ socks hung half off their feet as they cut construction paper at the dining room table. Slivers of paper drifted down to join the dog hair on the floor.

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