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Growing up, I always envied those who had both parents by their side. I wasn’t one of them.
My mom didn’t pass away — she walked out when I was 11, leaving my dad and me behind for another man.
Years later, she showed up at my door — fragile, sick, and asking to spend her final days in the home she once raised me in.
I said no. Too much time had passed, too many wounds left unhealed.
A few weeks later, police came to tell me she had passed away.
I thought I’d feel anger or relief — instead, I felt nothing but silence.
Then her lawyer handed me a small box. Inside was a photo of us from years ago… and a letter that changed everything.
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