Moving on, Moving Up

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Moving on, Moving Up

The first time it happened was in the middle of my freshman year of high school. It wasn’t the first move we’d undertaken at my father’s seemingly cavalier whim, only the one that came after the longest stretch we’d lived anywhere. From even before I was born, my family moved roughly every two years. Eight times in fact by the time we arrived in Chappaqua, NY. I was in third grade, my older siblings spanned into high school. Two years came and went, still we remained. We lived there for a luxurious seven years, until I was 14, knocking around town with a gaggle of close friends, trying new activities, never running out of new boys to flirt with or date. Then our captain—my father—once again steered our family ship onto a moving van.

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