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When I told Birchie about Digby, I knew that my prim grandmother would be . . . joyful. Joyful that she and I would not be the last of the Birch line after all. Joyful in the same soaring, secret way that I wasand right now? Feeling him move? I was practically giddy with it. I lay in the darkness, reveling in the flutter of this tiny, late, imperfectly got piece of what I'd always wanted.
Now I could hardly wait to call her. She had lived a version of this story: a single son, born when she was past thirty, that she had raised alone. Granted, she'd been a young widow. She'd had proper husband there for the conception part. Even so, Birchie would understand better than anyone else how, in the wake of my son's beginning, I felt like my life was beginning, too.
I had no way to know that seven hundred miles south of me, the grandmother I longed to tell was coming to her end.
Excerpted from The Almost Sisters by Joshilyn Jackson. Copyright © 2017 by Joshilyn Jackson. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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