When I was seven, my mom left. No note, no goodbye — just silence. My dad, Richard, tried his best. He was kind but overwhelmed, filling the gaps with frozen dinners and awkward hugs.He remarried a year later, then again. Leslie was the third. She moved in when I was fifteen, bringing casseroles, a fake smile, and her son Stuart — my age, but nothing like me.Leslie didn’t blend in. She took over. My clothes got cheaper, my meals smaller.

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