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My Family Ignored Me at My Own Birthday Dinner, But They All Wanted a Piece of Me When They Heard the Will
I turned seventy-eight on a Tuesday, and my house felt too quiet for a day that once meant balloons, homemade cards, and three little voices shouting through the kitchen before sunrise. Now it was just me, a roast chicken cooling on the counter, and a lemon pie that still smelled warm and sweet even if no one else cared enough to appreciate it. Getting old in Ohio has a way of making you invisible. Unless someone needs your checkbook, a ride, or a casserole, you’re a ghost wandering your own house. But I still tried. I pulled out the good…
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