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When I was a kid, I remember standing in front of the schedule taped to our fridge, my eyes tracing the rows of tiny letters as I tried to figure out when I’d get to see my dad.
The words stared back at me — A shift, B shift, C shift — over and over. I knew that A & B shift days meant I would see my Dad. I would count and recount — 24 hours on, 48 hours off — until the day finally came when I could run straight into his arms.
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