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She tried to sound wounded.
“Hannah, do you know what it’s like living in the shadow of a dead woman? Every story. Every photo. Every holiday. Always your mother.”
“Don’t talk about her.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“No,” I said.
“You’re telling on yourself.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
The church went silent again.
I kept going.
“I tried with you. For years.”
Her face tightened.
“I included you. Defended you. Made room for you.”
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