For years, my Sundays followed the same simple routine, and I never once questioned it. I thought I was just helping an old neighbor, but I had no idea how much those ordinary mornings would come to mean.
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The street was quiet that Sunday morning, the type of morning you only experience in a suburb where everyone’s still nursing their first coffee. I was 28 years old, standing on my driveway with the recycling bin, watching the maple leaves drift down two houses over.