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”
“Oh, sweetheart, where will it be? Some tiny restaurant? Or are you renting a terrace just to pretend?”
“I’ll send the address,” I said.
Outside, a black car was waiting. The driver opened the door respectfully.
After the divorce, my former mother-in-law showed up at Easter with the entire family, ready to mock what they thought was my downfall—but the moment they stepped through my private gate, they realized far too late: “Trash gets taken out today. You can leave.” By that night, everything they thought they owned was already slipping away.
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