The Waiting Room Truth
3 min read · Anonymous · Premium
Alex always said his work took him to the coast. “Logistics consulting,” he called it, a vague title that let him disappear for two weeks every month. I never questioned it—not really. He’d come home tired, smelling of hotel soap and airport air, with gifts for me and the kids: seashell keychains, saltwater taffy, postcards of lighthouses. I’d kiss him and unpack his suitcase, finding receipts from restaurants in a city three hundred miles away. It all seemed normal.
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