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I froze.
Read it again.
The room tilted.
I gripped the edge of the table until my fingers hurt.
I pictured the social worker.
The pastor. The way everyone said “the incident”.
No one said “prison.”
When your grandfather died, he left me the house and some savings, she wrote. I planned to use it for my old age and for you.
Your parents found out. They started talking about “taking over” my accounts “for your benefit.” They brought papers.
They wanted my signature.
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