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... not ever. If there was a highlight reel for misery, he'd probably narrate the whole damn thing with a mic and a whiskey glass.

By the time he was five, he'd already forgotten what happiness tasted like.

Maybe it was strawberry pancakes on a Saturday morning. Maybe it was warm socks and cartoons before bed. Either way, whatever "happy" was, it packed up and left without leaving a note.

His parents? Walking red flags wrapped in bad decisions and overdue bills. They didn't j ...

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