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We were a good family. The kind that still eats dinner together on weeknights and teases each other about who burns toast worse. Dad always said Mom did, but we all knew the truth.
We’d laugh about it over scrambled eggs on Sunday mornings, and everything felt right in the world.
At first, it was small things that I tried to brush off. Dad started checking his phone more often, his eyes glued to the screen during breakfast.
He’d step outside to take calls, his voice dropping to a low murmur I couldn’t quite hear through the window. The conversations would go on for ten, sometimes 15 minutes, and when he came back inside, his face looked different.
Once, when I asked who it was, he smiled this awkward smile and said, “Just work stuff, sweetheart.
Nothing to worry about.”
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