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My parents never really raised me. They fed me just enough to keep me alive, clothed me just enough so people wouldn’t ask questions, and spoke to me only when they needed something done. Love was never part of the arrangement. And even as a child, I understood something was wrong—not in loud, obvious ways, but in the quiet absences. No laughter at the dinner table. No warmth in their eyes. Just silence that stretched so long it felt permanent.
