Copyright © 2015 by roastedpiglet (of Wattpad)

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Piggy's Note:

Hey, beautiful! How've you been doing? Thank you for reading this right now. It means a lot to me. And I love you! :')

We're getting really close to the end! There are only Chapters 50 and 51 left until we can finally say that HTFIL has reached its conclusion! Oh my god. I thoroughly hope you'll still be with me by then. *crosses fingers*

I love you so much! Thank you so much for everything. I mean it. Truly.

I hope you'll like this chapter! I'M SO SORRY THAT IT'S WRITTEN HORRIBLY! I can't seem to write it even half decently no matter what I tried. I wanted it done so I kind of rushed it, too. I'm so, so, so sorry. I'm going to edit it after all this is done, I swear.

Until the last chapter?

Your (repentant) (but hopeful) roasted piglet,

Myka

P.S. Song above is "So Sorry" by Feist (it's so raw and beautiful, I swear). If you click on the arrow next to it, you'll see a Lachowski gif. How can anyone say no to Francisco Lachowski? Bae 100%.

Without further ado, the 49th chapter of HTFIL:




❀❃❀❃❀


c h a p t e r  f o r t y - n i n e

[  h o w  t o  b e g i n  a g a i n  ]



            The first day of the memorial service made me remember why I'd hated my mother for making us leave Minnesota after my father's death.

            I'd lived in Minnesota for sixteen years—it was in that state where I first pooped in my diapers, first failed my finals, and first went out on a date (which, as I recalled now, went dreadfully). It was also the place where I first found myself, and I was jovial with what I'd found: I was comedic Camila, being the life of the party and having a lot of friends. Most importantly, Minnesota was the first and last place I'd seen both my maternal and paternal grandparents, marking the partition in my life where I finally understood how the life we were living wasn't eternal.

            That didn't mean I didn't have any other relatives, as my mother had a sister and a brother, both of whom had their own family to take care of. Upon the news of my mother's death, they flew from Minnesota to New York—and that explained why right now, instead of having tears blurring my vision, I was hugging my aunt, patting her back, and telling her that everything was going to be okay.

            "I didn't even know she had cancer," Aunt Isabel said through tears, hugging me back—and pretty much taking the oxygen out of my system. "I'm such a bad sister!"

            Aunt Isabel was the youngest of the three children, with my mother being in the middle. Uncle Israel was the eldest, and at present, he was fighting back his own tears as he watched Aunt Isabel hugging—or hogging—the life out of me.

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