It was 11:47 p.m. on a February night, so cold the air felt like broken glass in my lungs. I was 24 years old, standing at the corner of MLK Boulevard and Fifth Street in Memphis, Tennessee, holding my 7-month-old daughter, Jean, wrapped in a fleece blanket that smelled like baby powder and desperation.
My name is Camille Duvau, and I need you to understand something before I tell you the rest of this story. I was not a weak woman. I had never been weak. But that night, my legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand.
Before we go any further, I want you to do something real quick. Drop your location and the current time where you are. I spend a lot of time reading your comments, and seeing how far these stories travel across different countries and time zones never stops surprising me.
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