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For days, I walked around in a fog. He acted like nothing had happened, infuriatingly normal. He’d kiss my cheek in the morning, ask about my day. But the words, those cruel, cutting words, echoed in my head. “Living off me, eating for free.” They festered, poisoning every memory, every shared moment. Was it true? Was I a burden? I’d scaled back my own career, willingly, to support his ambitions, to create the home he wanted. I had trusted him. Trusted his love.
I couldn’t talk to him. Every time I tried, the words got stuck. I felt too ashamed, too raw. I needed someone. My mother would be too upset, too dramatic. My sister would tell me to leave him. I needed perspective, a calm voice. I needed my dad.
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