Raising a two-year-old alone meant learning how to carry the weight of the world with one arm while the other held your daughter close. Every decision, every sleepless night, every small victory belonged to you. Her father existed on his own terms—appearing when it suited him, vanishing when it didn’t. He called it involvement. You called it survival.
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@misasoupThe grocery store was too bright. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching the color from everything—the rows of cereal boxes, the polished linoleum, the tired faces of other shoppers pushing carts with a steady, grinding rhythm.
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