I was twenty years old when I discovered that the story I had carried my entire life about my father’s death was a lie. Fourteen years of carefully constructed truths had masked the reality, and I had believed them without question. For as long as I could remember, Meredith—my stepmother—had been the voice of reason, the keeper of the narrative, the gentle guardian who explained my world in small, manageable pieces. “It was a car accident,” she would say, her voice… CONTINUE READING…
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