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dollhouse. “They’re sisters. That’s never changing again.”

“Do you hate me?”

A week later, I found myself facing Marla in a mediation room, her hands clasped tightly, eyes red.

She spoke first, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Phoebe. I never meant to hurt anymore.”

I sat forward, anger and pain mixing. “Then why?”

Marla’s confession came out in pieces. continue reading …