I was twenty years old when I realized the story I’d been told about my father’s death wasn’t the whole truth. For fourteen years, the explanation never changed: it was a car accident, sudden and unavoidable. I accepted that answer because I trusted Meredith and because I had no reason to doubt her words. My early childhood memories with my father were filled with warmth—quiet mornings, gentle jokes, and the feeling that I was deeply cherished. After my biological mother died the day I was born, he became my constant, building a small world around our routines and simple moments...
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