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My MIL offered my 13-year-old son $20 a day to scrape ice off her car. He worked in the dark, freezing mornings, believing her. When he came home unpaid, I had no idea karma was already watching her driveway.
I was thirty-seven when I finally stopped pretending my mother-in-law, Eleanor, might change.
He was five then.
Small hands. Curious eyes. A faint birthmark on his cheek that doctors had called harmless at least ten times.
Eleanor looked at him over the rim of her porcelain cup.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t reach out.
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