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By the time I was seventeen, I’d learned to live like a ghost in my own home—quiet, unnoticed, and utterly alone. I knew which floorboards creaked, which doors had to be eased shut, how to make myself invisible even in broad daylight. So the night I left, I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t owe them that. I paused at the door for a moment, half-expecting someone to call out—to notice. No one did.
