The first time I brought my son back to the house that exiled us, the air itself turned against me.
My parents stared at him like he was a curse with my eyes, a living reminder of everything they’d tried to bury under polished floors and polite lies. Ten years of silence pressed on my chest, thick and unbreathable, as my boy’s fingers tightened around mine.
They thought he was my shame, the evidence of my ruin. They didn’t know he was their belo… Continues…
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