For twelve years, I honestly believed I’d won at life. I had a husband who, I thought, loved me. A home full of chaos and laughter. A neighbor who had somehow turned into my closest friend. Was it perfect? No. But I thought it was real. I thought it was ours. My name’s Megan. I’m 40 now, and I can pinpoint the exact afternoon when that illusion shattered. Back then, my days started at six in the morning and didn’t really end until midnight. I’d drag myself out of bed, wake the kids, negotiate with three tiny tyrants over cereal...
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