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A Short Story : The Story Of The Story?

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“Thank you, honey; we’ll find something in the refrigerator. Now you run along,” Virginia said and acted relieved they were leaving and smiled as she closed the door behind them. “There is something wrong here, and I don’t know what I should do, but I am sure glad you are here,” Deborah said, driving to the restaurant. “I don’t know how to help them, but I agree you need to do something. I think your mother is losing her mind. How long has she been this way?” Andrew asked. “She has been this way about a week. Mom is always talking about her sister, Helen; she has been dead for more than thirty-five years. Her children grown, have grandchildren how could Mom have her bring the kids over so you could see them?” Deborah said fighting back the tears. “Before you came in, she was telling us that Helen brought her kids over yesterday and they kept Joseph awake most of the day, and today she has let him sleep the entire day,” Andrew said.
After eating dinner at the corner coffee shop, they returned to the house. Deborah rang the doorbell and waited for her mother to open the door. Checking the door and finding it locked, she removed the key from her purse. Entering the silent house, Deborah called out, “Mom, we’re back.” Getting no response, she called out again. “Mom, we’re back. Where are you?” “Are they even here?” Margaret asked. “Oh, yes, Dad is upstairs. Mom calls me about every other day and asks me to bring him strawberry ice

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