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For most of my adult life, I believed my marriage was built on the quiet kind of happiness that doesn’t draw attention to itself. Nothing flashy, nothing dramatic — just stability. For seven years, I thought Daniel and I had mastered a rhythm that other couples envied: shared mornings, peaceful evenings, and a sense that we were slowly but surely building a future together.
We lived in a modest but charming home, one we painted room by room until it felt like an extension of who we were. A porch swing hung on the front deck — Daniel installed it himself. On warm summer nights, we would sit side by side, holding iced tea, talking about everything and nothing. I used to believe those moments were proof of us, proof that our foundation was strong.
Daniel had a steady job as an accountant — structured, disciplined, always punctual. I admired that about him. Numbers made sense to him in ways emotions…
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