Eleven years married. Two children. One house she has never fully felt was hers. Then, in the middle of an ordinary fight, four careless words: "This house is mine. You can leave." She said nothing back. She never does - not in the moment. This is her diary, written after midnight when no one's watching: the labour nobody counts, the woman she slowly stopped being, and the one question she keeps circling back to under every ordinary day of this marriage - Is this really a home? Or just a house she's been allowed to stay in, for now?
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