My name is Sophie Anderson, and at twenty-eight years old I thought I’d finally built a life that had nothing to do with the man who threw me out with a suitcase and garbage bags when I was eighteen. It had taken a full decade to construct a version of myself that didn’t flinch at the sound of doors slamming, or the particular way a man’s voice can turn gentle right before it turns cruel, or the sick feeling of conditional love being withdrawn the moment you fail to meet impossible standards.
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