The first lie cut quietly, so clean she almost thanked them for the precision. By the time the second came sugar‑coated, dressed as concern, they’d already planted the idea that she was too much, too loud, too needy to be trusted with her own life. No one believed her when she said something felt wrong; they called it anxiety, hormones, “a phase.” Weeks later, she was sleeping in her car beneath a buzzing grocery store light, engine off to save gas, fingers numb around a phone with one number on speed dial: the lawyer they said proved she was unfit. A locked door. A deed. A story retold until it sounded like hers. They’d almost convinced her she’d done this to hersel… Continues…
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