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Evan shouted into his headset.
When my son sl:apped me for interrupting his video game, I just lowered my head and walked to the kitchen. I spent three hours baking his favorite triple-chocolate cake
“Trash team! Absolute trash!”
Marissa came down once, barefoot, phone in hand. She stopped when she saw the cake cooling on the rack.
“Oh,” she said. “So you’re not mad?”
I smiled without showing teeth. “Would anger help?”
