Weeks later, he left for university barely speaking to me.
The house became quiet.
I sat at the kitchen table and wrote Ella an apology letter, knowing it could never undo the damage. Then I put away the old photo of her—the one Jeremiah had kept for years—and closed the drawer.
For the first time, I stopped protecting the version of my son I wanted to believe in.
And I started facing the one standing in front of me.
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