Quite fittingly, months later in her fake husband’s bedroom, where I had been coerced into vile situations as a child, I was coerced into a vile situation as an adult—the celebration of my marriage. I sat there as strange women did my hair and makeup. I kept crying and ruining their work, but they would just touch it up again. Not one heartless witch thought it strange that this young girl kept crying. Not one of them thought to say to my mom, “What are you doing?” Probably because they would all do the same to their own daughters in a heartbeat. There was food but no music, because that’s
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