Bittersweet

The car arrived.

“It won’t be long, I promise,” I said to my son, he bawled, entering the vehicle; it departed with a screech.

Moments later the transit van pulled up, I waited in anticipation until I saw my bloody and bruised daughter walk down the steps. Tears of happiness rolled down my cheeks as she ran into my arms. The sense of depression and melancholy was overwhelming.

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