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by Scott Zarcinas
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He remembered that night with fondness. November 5, 1989, Guy Fawkes night. As they drove along the peninsula to Serena, they had discussed how many children they’d like to have. It was an odd thing to discuss on a first date, he had to admit, but discuss it they did, in detail, and the answer had been three. They were both single children, and they shared the common hope of starting a family in the future. He told her that he had always wanted to have a trio of little ones; it had been that way ever since he could remember. (“One for me, one for my wife, and one for the grandparents,” he had joked at the time.) It was the same, he was happy to learn, for Angie, and the dream of having children was the seed that matured into the bond that eventually united them.
Back when he and Angie met, they were twenty-two and carefree and full of hope. Things were different in those days. Angie was different. They had a bright future, dreams to look forward to, a successful career, she as a lawyer and he as a teacher. After that, babies. There was a cheery purpose to their life. They seemed eager, if not ravenous, for each day, especially Angie.
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