When memories persist

I was 11 when my parents decided to reconcile. We headed out as a family to the Maritimes where most of us were born.
We visited my grandmother and the next day decided to head over to my uncle’s farm. That unfortunate day, seven of us piled into the station wagon and headed along a road my dad had driven most of his young life. He didn’t see the newly placed stop sign and as we went through the intersection, we hit the oncoming car.

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