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When my sister Betsy and I were kids, we lived in a charming old
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farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in
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the backyard. But our favorite thing about the farmhouse was the ghost.
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We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing.
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Some mornings we’d find a cup on our nightstands that wasn't there before.
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Mother had left them, worried we would get thirsty during the night.
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Among the house’s original furnishings was an antique wooden chair. Whenever we were
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playing, Mother would inch that chair across the room. Years later,
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