Before I turned seven, I had a happy, loving family.My parents both had their own careers, but they never let work take away from being present as parents.In my memory, my father had always been gentle and attentive toward my mother.My mother had beautiful hair, but she hated blow-drying it.Whenever that happened, no matter how busy he was, my father would set everything aside and smile as he helped her dry and brush it.My mother loved lilies, and every day, a fresh bouquet would appear by her bedside.But one day, the mother who always smiled sat silently on the balcony for hours, from sunrise to sunset.I knew it was because of that florist, the woman who looked somewhat like her, and my father.When I grew older, I finally understood what my father had done. It was called cheating.After my mother found out, she began putting her affairs in order. Once, I overheard her speaking to a mechanical voice.“Fifteen days remaining before departure.”I didn’t stop her.I knew that if
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