I left before dawn with my toddler asleep against my shoulder. There were no farewells, no final words, only the sound of my steps and my own unsteady breath. The years that followed blurred into survival—counting coins, smiling when expected, swallowing grief so completely that even my reflection seemed unfamiliar.
Seven years later, the phone rang. My sister’s number. My husband’s voice, fragile and worn down by illness. He was dying. He spoke of a bank card, of money set aside, and of a choice I would have to make—one that would either cement my bitterness or loosen its grip.
The apartment I entered carried none of the triumph I had imagined. My husband looked like a man already halfway gone, his body betraying him. My sister’s face was etched with exhaustion and regret. They didn’t ask for absolution. They didn’t pretend they deserved anything.
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