The divorce had finalized six months ago. Her son, Leo, had started having nightmares three weeks after that. She’d lost her teaching job two months later—budget cuts, they said, but she knew it was also because she’d stopped pretending to be fine. Then her father’s diagnosis. Then the car breaking down. Life had become a prison of small, repeating disasters with no visible exit.
She looked upstairs toward Leo’s room. The nightlight glowed through the crack in his door like a distant shore.
But then she kept scrolling.
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