The wife he left behind
Priya unfolded it slowly, and laid it on the table.
It was, exactly as she’d described, a child’s drawing. Rough lines, the kind only a very young child draws, a square house with a triangle roof, smoke coming from a chimney in careful zigzags, and outside it, standing in a row, six small stick figures, each one slightly different, each one clearly meant to be a specific person even though none of them had faces drawn in.
Underneath, in careful, uneven child’s handwriting, the words Priya had quoted.
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