Nothing happened. No calls, no messages—just silence. I convinced myself it meant things were improving, that maybe I wasn’t needed after all. Two weeks later, guilt finally drove me home. I told myself I was just checking in, but the moment I stepped inside, something felt wrong. The living room walls were covered in drawings—dozens, maybe hundreds. Childlike sketches of a man, a boy, and a woman, all labeled with the same word: “Mom.” My chest tightened as I took them in. Each drawing was slightly different, but the message was the same. I hadn’t even noticed my husband behind...
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