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“Daddy forgot his watch,” I said, and my daughter went still at the kitchen island, syrup cooling on her Mickey Mouse pancakes, as if the one thing my husband had never left behind in seven years had cracked something open inside our picture-perfect house—and by the time the backyard floodlight came on over an empty camera feed, I was already packing a bag with shaking hands.
The digital clock on our nightstand read 4:17 a.m. when Jonas kissed me goodbye. I pretended to be asleep, keeping my breathing even as his...
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