For ten years, I lived in his house, yet it never truly felt like mine. To his children, I existed in a narrow, functional way. I wasn’t ignored entirely, but I was reduced to a role that barely carried identity. I was “the nurse.” The one who managed his medications, kept his space clean, adjusted his pillows in the middle of the night, and made sure he got through each day. My presence mattered only as long as I was needed. They came and went with polite, distant smiles, never staying long enough to see anything real. Our conversations were…
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