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Stephanie moved through life with confidence and volume, while Ruth learned to observe before speaking, to measure herself carefully. I loved them both deeply, but I slowly realized that loving children “equally” doesn’t always mean they feel equally seen. What one child absorbs easily, another may quietly question.
By the time they reached their teenage years, small tensions had grown sharper. Arguments became more frequent, silences longer, and misunderstandings heavier. Then, on the night of Ruth’s prom, everything came to a breaking point. She told me she was leaving, convinced that her place in our family was rooted in obligation rather than love. Someone had told her about the promise I once made, and in her pain, she believed she had been chosen as a condition, not as a daughter. I tried to explain—how love had come first, how motherhood expanded my heart instead of dividing it—but words struggle to compete with hurt, especially in someone still learning who they are.
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