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Longevity

Fighting the good fight: Sara Part 4

With Sara at a safe house, I was finally able to leave work. It was late at night by the time I got home. My wife was waiting for me, and I told her the whole story. I mentioned that I would be reuniting Sara with her mother late tomorrow afternoon at the Halifax airport. As I talked to Marianne, I realized that there would probably be quite a bit of time before Sara’s mother arrived from Montreal. I then had a flash of brilliance and thought that perhaps bringing my daughter Abbie, who was four years old at the time, might be a good idea.  She could keep Sara company, and Sara would have a little friend her sister’s age to play with. I asked Marianne what she thought, and she immediately said she felt that this would be a splendid idea. Marianne gathered up some toys, colouring books

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Longevity

Fighting the good fight: Sara Part 3

Sara and her father had been living in Toronto under assumed names; Yones and Sara Kohan. Her father worked as a carpenter, and she was enrolled in grade one at a local school. Her father had filed a refugee claim with Canadian immigration, but they were not flagged because of the assumed names. They had managed to escape detection for three years. When we left the interview room, I locked the door behind me. I took Sara to a large meeting room and asked Marge, my secretary, to take her to the bathroom. I was extremely relieved that I had been able to separate Sara without a scene. I have been in many situations where children were wailing as their parents clung to them and refused to let go. It’s a situation you never want to happen, and it only occurs when the child’s safety is in imminent danger or

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Longevity

Fighting the Good Fight: The Memoir of Patrick Guy Roy

This is the first in a series of stories about retired RCMP officer Patrick Guy Roy who is slowly slipping into Alzheimer’s.  I still remember walking past the house where a gang of boys stood waiting to taunt me. There was no way around them if I wanted to get to my cousin’s house. I would stiffen inside, my heart would pound, and I’d keep my head and eyes firmly fixed on the ground. My pace would quicken almost to a run as I listened to their jeers. I was seven years old. Every time I approached their house, the churning would start in my gut, and I would feel ashamed of my fear. I wanted to cry and run home, but I didn’t. I’d hold my breath, grit my teeth, lower my gaze and hurry past. The taunting went on for what felt like years. It was always the

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