By the third year, the weight of it sat in the walls, in the grocery lists, in the quiet way my debit card slid through machines no one else seemed to notice. Nothing had been declared, no terms agreed upon, no ceremony to mark the moment when “temporary” stopped being a promise and became a lie we all politely shared. It was just my home, my money, their comfort, and a word—family—doing the heaviest, most invisible labor… Continues…
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