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Inside, the hallway was crowded with unopened boxes, a massive television, new furniture, and electronics stacked like a private empire. My daughters gasped in wonder—until they saw their father walking easily, carrying boxes without crutches. The cast remained, but the injury clearly did not.
He looked startled, then casually greeted us, claiming his leg was “better than it looked.” Piece by piece, the truth surfaced: while we were gone, he had built himself a private retreat, a space to escape from the noise of family life. Thousands of dollars spent without discussion. A lie crafted carefully enough to send us away so he could build a life inside our home that did not include us.
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