I thought I was coming home to a cozy evening—takeout on the table, warm lights, the comfort of family under one roof. Instead, something felt off the moment I stepped inside. The house was too quiet, like a conversation had frozen the second I walked in.
Then I saw her. My daughter Emily, seven months pregnant, curled on a thin air mattress in the living room, exhaustion written across her face. Upstairs, my wife Samantha laughed with our younger daughter Lily as if nothing was unusual. My chest tightened with one thought: someone had decided my daughter deserved the least comfort in this house.
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