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For nineteen years, my life rested on one simple belief: my mother had given birth to me, handed me to my father, and disappeared without looking back. My dad, Miles, never told that story with resentment. He spoke about it calmly, almost gently, always making sure I understood that her leaving had nothing to do with me. He was the father who learned how to braid hair from YouTube tutorials—most of his early attempts looked like architectural failures. He burned dinner more often than he’d admit, but he never missed a school performance, cheering just as loudly for “Tree Number Two” as if I were the star of the show. He was my constant, my shelter, my whole world.
That understanding shattered on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in my college dorm. An unexpected video call connected me to a woman lying in a hospital bed—frail, gray-haired, surrounded by softly beeping machines.
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