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I nearly dialed 911 on the tattooed teenager holding a screaming baby inside an empty 1 AM laundromat. Then his bag tore open, and my stomach sank with utter shame.

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“That’s not the worst thing.”

“It is if she leaves again.”

There it was.

The truest fear.

Not anger.

Not jealousy.

Abandonment repeating itself.

I took his hand.

“Then we don’t build Emma’s life on Rachel alone. We build it like a table with many legs. You. Me. Rachel, if she proves steady. Friends. Teachers. People who love her. That way, if one leg wobbles,continue reading …

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