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I stumble through the morning in a fog. After one of those sleepless nights that seems to be a gift of aging, I barely have the energy to shuffle through my morning duties. Tom is the last to declare a breakfast preference and skips alongside me singing a made up song about cereal. He looks up at my puffy, bleary-eyed face and says, “I’m happy, Mommy.”

And I smile. Because now I’m happy, too.

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