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I wasn’t expecting anything unusual that morning. I was just trying to get four kids dressed, fed, and out the door without losing my mind. Grace was crying about a missing teddy bear. Lily hated her braid because it was “lumpy.” Max was scribbling maple syrup across the floor like he was painting with it. And Noah, the oldest, was trying to pretend none of his siblings existed. It was chaos, the kind I’d grown used to since Emma died. My name is Lucas. I’m 42, a widower, and a father doing my best to raise four kids under a…
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