Ten years after that day in the redwood forest, my brother was painting a wall in his apartment when his heart stopped beating. It fell to my two middle brothers to go to San Francisco for his belongings and the ashes, first because I had stopped flying and second because my mother didn’t trust me: I had lost some inheritance documents pertaining to a property in Mar del Plata twenty years before, and was branded useless there and then. Once your family role has been assigned, that tends to be that.
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