My name is Veronica. I was thirty-two years old when I learned that betrayal doesn’t always arrive wearing a villain’s face. Sometimes it comes dressed in a familiar smile, standing under the warm lights of your childhood dining room, setting down a tray of steaming lasagna as if the evening is going to be ordinary.
The text from my father had landed that afternoon while I was still half-buried in campaign reports at work.
Family dinner. Six o’clock. Important matters.
That was all it said.
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