I loved him for all sorts of reasons: He cooked without recipes; he wrote nonsense poems for his nieces; his large, warm family had accepted me as one of their own. and when I first showed him my scar, he said it was interesting. He used the word "textured." He said "smooth" was boring but "textured" was interesting, and the scar meant that I was stronger than whatever it was that had tried to hurt me.
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