“No,” I corrected her. “It’s the blood of survivors. The blood of the resilient. The blood of those who don’t give up.”
I looked at my granddaughter. In her veins flowed the history of a woman who defied a town for love, a grandfather who fought wars, an uncle who broke rules to save his family, and a mother who walked out of a grave to build a new life.
It wasn’t dirty blood. It was the blood of winners.
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