The Homecoming

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By Trenda Berryhill

Windows down in her hunk-of-junk car, Val cursed the humid gusts tangling her hair. Her black suit stuck to her skin like a fly to the gummy strip nailed to her porch. She guided the car left onto the dirt road. Ahead, the one-room, whitewashed church awaited. Val parked. Accustomed to the sneakers she wore as a preschool teacher, she wobbled on three-inch heels. Inside, the preacher asked if anyone wanted to speak. All heads turned to her. She walked to the pulpit. She smiled as she’d been taught and lied, “My daddy wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

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