I stood outside my father’s house on Christmas Eve, watching him through the frosted window as he laughed and raised a glass of bourbon in toast to my brother, pretending I didn’t exist. My truck was parked at the end of the driveway with the headlights off and the engine silent, having driven two hours through the snow on nothing but hope—hope that maybe the text message I’d received three days earlier was some kind of misunderstanding.
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