I didn’t cry until it was over. Until the security radios went quiet, the crowd dispersed, and my twins finally settled against my chest in that borrowed staff room. I replayed every second: Patricia’s contempt, her threats, the way she sneered at the word “widower” like it was an excuse instead of a wound. For a moment, I believed her—that I was an intruder, a problem, a man failing at a job meant for someone else.
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