The House Was My Mother’s. My Stepmom Forgot That.
I was fourteen when Mom died, just months after her divorce from Dad. She’d been my anchor; when she was gone, we drifted. A year later he remarried. Karen swept in—sharp perfume, bright lipstick, fake smiles. She called Mom’s keepsakes “junk” and rolled her eyes whenever I mentioned her. By eighteen, her mask was off….
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