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The moment I realized my son had chosen his wife over the woman who’d raised him. I pulled out my laptop and opened the folder I’d labeled grandchildren. Hundreds of photos gathered from school websites, social media accounts of their friends, local newspaper coverage of academic achievements.
A heartbreaking collection of milestones observed from afar. Alex at 12, winning the state science fair. Lily at 14, performing in her school’s production of Romeo and Juliet.
But as I studied the photos, I began to see something else. In the candid shots, in the unguarded moments between poses, I saw something that gave me hope. Neither twin looked particularly happy.
Alex—brilliant and serious—seemed isolated, even in group photos. Lily—artistic and sensitive—had developed the kind of guarded expression that spoke of someone who’d learned not to trust too easily. They looked like children who’d been controlled rather than loved.
Managed rather than nurtured. They looked like James had looked when he was their age, before I’d learned to balance discipline with warmth. Before I’d understood that love meant listening as much as teaching.
My phone rang, interrupting my painful nostalgia. The caller ID showed a number I didn’t recognize. “Mrs.
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