The kitchen was bathed in the warm, deceptive glow of a normal Tuesday evening when the foundation of my life finally crumbled. I was eight months pregnant, my body heavy with the weight of a daughter I already loved, and the simple act of standing at the sink felt like a marathon. My name is Hannah Miller, and for three years, I had lived in a house of eggshells and shadows. The catalyst was nothing more than a wet plate. It slipped from my soapy fingers, clattering into the porcelain basin with a sharp, resonant ring. It didn’t break, but…
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