My name is Claire, and if you asked me a year ago what my life looked like, I would’ve said “steady.” Not glamorous. Not Instagram-perfect. Just… solid. Marcus and I had thirteen years of marriage behind us—two kids, a house that always smelled faintly like laundry detergent and chicken nuggets, and a rhythm built from carpools, homework, and the kind of small routines you don’t appreciate until they’re ripped out from under you. Emma is twelve—soft-spoken, observant, the kind of girl who can tell you’re upset before you’ve even said hello. Jacob is nine—pure motion, cleats on his feet more...
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