to make sure I never went without anything. From the outside, we probably looked like a perfectly ordinary little family.
Except there was one person we never talked about.
My mother.
Her photographs were nowhere in the house. Her name never came up during family conversations, and whenever I asked where she was, my father always gave me the same answer.
“She wasn’t fit to be your mother.”
He never explained further.
When I was five, I asked whether she had been a bad person.
At seven, I wondered if
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