My parents didn’t need to raise their voices when they gave me the ultimatum. They never had to. My father spoke the same way he handled business—measured, deliberate, absolute. “Be married by thirty-one,” he said quietly over dinner, eyes still on his plate, “or you’re out of the will.” My mother didn’t react. She simply adjusted her glass of wine and gave that familiar, polished smile—the kind that meant everything was proceeding exactly as planned. That was the life I’d always known: curated, controlled, carefully performed. I wasn’t raised to simply exist—I was raised to represent them. And now, apparently,…
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