you dare. You made me believe you cared. You let me grieve beside you. You made me think I had something real.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out the card—the one written with love, hope, and hard-earned trust. I dropped it on the floor between us.
I turned and walked away.
The Final Blow — and the Beginning of the Truth
Weeks passed. I told no one. I barely slept. I couldn’t eat the lemon bars I had brought home. They tasted like betrayal.
Eventually, I contacted my mother’s attorney and requested a copy of her will. Something in me needed answers—needed control, maybe justice.
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