Our small apartment was always bursting with fabric, threads, laughter, and the hum of our old sewing machine. It wasn’t luxury, but it was ours.
A little universe of hope.
Then this morning happened.
The doorbell rang—sharp, impatient.
We weren’t expecting anyone.
I opened the door… and nearly dropped my coffee.
Eighteen years older, surgically polished, dripping in designer labels. She looked me up and down like I was gum stuck to her expensive heel.
“MARK…” she sneered, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You’re still the same loser. Still living in this… hole? You were supposed to be a MAN. Making money. Building an empire!”
Her words sliced, but I’d been cut before. I didn’t bleed anymore.
She walked deeper into the apartment, her eyes scanning everything—the sewing table, the mannequins, the half-finished gowns. Fabrics everywhere.
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