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I searched his face, trying to connect this man with the one who’d slurred apologies into my voicemail.
“You let me think you were an addict,” I whispered.
His eyes went shiny.
“I know,” he said. “And I’d do it again if it meant you and the kids were safe.”
“Safe from what?” I demanded. “You could have told me.
You could have trusted me.”
“I signed things,” he said. “They watched my phone. My visits.
Who mattered to me. If they knew you were important, you’d be a target, not just collateral.”
My stomach turned.
“So you burned everything down instead,” I said.
Silence stretched between us.
“Mom said ‘child,’” I said.
He swallowed.
“I have a daughter,” he admitted.
“Her mom wanted out, completely. New city. New life.
Staying away was the only way to keep them safe.”
“You just live with that?” I asked. “Like it’s normal?”
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