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You can spend years translating cruelty into “concern” if the person delivering it shares your last name. You can excuse it as old-fashioned, as “just how she is,” as something you owe a little patience and a lot of yourself. Then one sentence lands so precisely that every euphemism falls off the bone. We’d spent the morning writing names in frosting, cartwheeling sugar roses across a hundred cookies. Emma tucked the tin under her arm like treasure and whispered, “Maybe this year is different.”