I walked into my parents’ house with my newborn pressed against my chest, still aching from delivery, still moving carefully like my body didn’t fully belong to me yet. Emma was only nine days old. She slept quietly, wrapped in a pale yellow blanket, her breath soft and warm through the fabric. I hadn’t wanted to come. But my mother had called three times that morning, her voice sweet in a way that always made me uneasy. She said Dad wanted to make peace. Said family shouldn’t stay divided after a baby arrives. I should have listened to the feeling...
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