I can still smell that morning if I close my eyes. The cinnamon warming the air, the butter melting in the cast-iron pan, the windows fogged just slightly from the oven heat. Blake, our aging golden retriever, slept under the table, his tail thumping every now and then. And Cole—my husband—stood across from me humming off-key while unpacking groceries like it was any other Thanksgiving….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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