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by Pamela Love “Mom, what did you do? How could you?” I’ve edited out the all caps, boldface, and 20pt font from my first draft, but those italics stay in because Josh was bellowing at my daughter, Shelly. In fact, my grandson sounded like he had a bullhorn. Our church’s social hall is on the opposite side of the building from the sanctuary, but everybody went silent as I went beet red. Even Gil Peterson asked, “Hey Lorraine, what’s wrong?” and he never wears his hearing aid. I’d wondered why Shelly wasn’t in the social hall. That day of all days, she should’ve been talking nonstop with all the visitors, acting like she was the famous artist, not her son. Instead, she was somehow causing a scene in the sanctuary… where Josh’s new painting was. “Excuse me,” I said to Eleanor and Ellen (we’d been discussing our latest surgeries), then set down my cup and made a beeline for the sanctuary—or as much of a beeline as a “bee” with arthritic knees can. Maybe it was just something Shelly sa

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