The dreads
Every Sunday since, oh, I don’t know, second grade, I woke up with a knot of dread in the middle of my chest. The weekend wasn’t over yet, but it was about to be, and in just 20-odd hours, I’d be walking back through the doors of my Catholic school, tugging at my itchy wool jumper and settling into the stiff wood and metal chair for a full day of worksh…
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