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Father’s Day had always followed the same comforting script. Lazy mornings, cartoons murmuring in the background, pancakes drowned in syrup, and handmade cards taped a little crookedly to the fridge. I expected nothing different this year—just another quiet celebration of routines I loved.
But that Sunday didn’t unfold the way I imagined.
There was no drama in her voice. No secrecy. Just honesty—the kind only children have, where truth isn’t filtered or softened. I kept driving, listening carefully, feeling my understanding of our home quietly shift with every word she spoke.
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