Lena Whitmore sensed something was wrong the moment she pulled into the driveway of the small blue rental in Dayton. After a sixteen-hour ICU shift, she expected the familiar hum of her father’s radio or the glow of the television—but found only silence. Her headlights swept across the lawn, revealing her scrubs, textbooks, and framed graduation photo scattered across the wet grass, as if her life had been emptied and discarded. When the door cracked open, her mother’s voice cut through, cold and rehearsed: “You don’t live here anymore.” Behind her, her father stood rigid, her sister silent but watchful, and in that instant, Lena realized it had all been planned.
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