Fueled by fury, I marched to her door, ready to unleash every word I’d rehearsed. But the woman who opened the door wasn’t a villain. Her eyes were swollen, her hands scraped, her whole face carved by old grief. She led me inside, and on her wall hung photographs of three children, long gone but forever young in the frames. Twenty years ago, she told me, she lost all of them two days before Christmas.
Understanding softened something sharp inside me. Instead of yelling, I hugged her. She crumbled. And when she tried to retreat into guilt, I told her she was coming outside to help fix the lights she’d torn down.
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