Two little girls stand with their heads bowed in my living room. I’m told they’re my granddaughters. This is the first time I’ve met them since my daughter and I fell out after she married that waste of space, Vince. Daisy is nine, and Alice seven. Daisy is the spitting image of her mother.
They’ve come to live with me because their mother — my daughter — was murdered. In her own home while they slept close by
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تثبيت تطبيق "ياسمينة الكتب"
