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For nearly twenty years, Matthew Harper lived with a deliberate distance from the place that had shaped him. The small town of Redwood Falls, Ohio, had always felt too quiet, too confining for a young man full of grand dreams and a restless drive to prove himself. He left, believing that doing so was an act of love—that by going far away, working hard, and sending money home, he could give his parents the security they deserved.
Distance became a habit. He followed work wherever it took him: construction sites thick with the smell of diesel and concrete dust, warehouse floors buzzing beneath harsh fluorescent lights, and endless highways stretching beneath eighteen wheels. He learned to sleep in unfamiliar places, eat at odd hours, and mark time by deliveries and deadlines instead of seasons. When he could, he wired money home. His parents always sounded cheerful on the phone—grateful, reassuring. They asked about his routes, his health, and the weather wherever he was. They never complained. Matthew took their words at face value, telling himself that silence meant stability.
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