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In 2009, I discovered Gretchen’s journals and my letters in closets at our townhouse in Alexandria. Gretchen died before we could meet. When I read the journals, I heard her voice and echoes of my own, long hidden.

A year later, I took a sabbatical to build a house with my husband Keith and sort through the past. “Ask me any questions you’d like,” he said about his daughter. I wasn’t sure I could say the same because I no longer knew who I was.

Three years later I found the answer and almost missed it.

 

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