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By the time I was an adult, my parents' dysfunction hadn't faded. It had deepened.

The bad decisions were bigger; the behaviour more erratic. And the survival techniques I'd learnt in childhood — hyper‑vigilance, anticipating needs before they were spoken, smoothing over messes before anyone else noticed — had only grown more elaborate.

What once kept me safe as a child was now toxic to my soul.

I cleaned my parents' house because I remembered what it was like to live in filth. I bought them groceries b

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