After my first divorce, I would drive up to the wine country on Friday afternoon (or, if I’d been able to force myself to go out chasing skirts after a hard week of processing the words of fools, Saturday morning) to pick up my daughter Brigitte, the light of my life.
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Machetes, Not Daggers
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After my first divorce, I would drive up to the wine country on Friday afternoon (or, if I’d been able to force myself to go out chasing skirts after a hard week of processing the words of fools, Saturday morning) to pick up my daughter Brigitte, the light of my life.