The weekend handoff was always a choreographed dance of tension, but this Sunday felt different. The air in the hallway was thick, heavy with things unsaid.
I, Sarah, stood by the door, watching my ex-husband, Mark, walk our twelve-year-old daughter, Mia, up the driveway. Mark was a tech entrepreneur, a man who wore charisma like a tailored suit. He smiled at me—a tight, practiced expression that didn’t reach his cold, calculating eyes.
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