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The voicemail came in while Ethan was still smiling for photos, the kind of polished, public smile he’d learned to wear like armor. He stepped into the quiet hallway of the hotel and pressed his phone to his ear, expecting a quick “goodnight” from his eight-year-old daughter, Lily. Instead, her whisper sounded small and shaky.
“Dad… please… hurry home. I’m so cold… She won’t let me change.” Ethan’s stomach dropped. He saw the screen: missed calls stacked like warnings he hadn’t heard soon enough.
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