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It started years ago. The moment I walked through that door, their eyes, just children then, burned with an accusation I felt deep in my bones. I was the interloper. The replacement. The woman who dared to stand where their mother once stood. Their father, bless his kind but often clueless heart, tried. He really did. But he couldn’t bridge the chasm of their grief and resentment. And I, well, I just loved them. I just wanted to love them.
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