Después de meses fuera, pensé que sorprender a mi familia en Nochebuena sería perfecto. En lugar de eso, encontré a mis hijos acurrucados en nuestro auto, diciendo que su madre estaba “ocupada con un hombre”. Mientras me imaginaba lo peor, supe que nuestra Navidad iba a ser un desastre.
Los limpiaparabrisas perdían la batalla contra la nieve mientras manejaba el automóvil por la calle de nuestro barrio.
Un hombre conduciendo por la nieve | Fuente: Midjourney
Después de tres meses de interminables viajes de negocios, por fin me dirigía a casa en Nochebuena. El reloj del tablero marcaba las 19:43: el momento perfecto para sorprender a Sarah y a los niños.
“Espera a que vean lo que hay en el maletero”, murmuré, pensando en el montón de regalos cuidadosamente envueltos que había comprado durante mis viajes.
Tres meses era mucho tiempo para estar fuera, pero me había asegurado de que cada regalo fuera lo bastante especial como para compensar mi ausencia.
Un hombre sonriendo mientras conduce | Fuente: Midjourney
El kit de modelismo de cohetes para Tommy, los materiales de arte para el nuevo interés de Jake por la pintura y el joyero vintage que había encontrado para Sarah en aquella pequeña tienda de antigüedades de Boston.
Al girar hacia nuestra calle, las luces navideñas de las casas vecinas proyectaban sombras de colores sobre la nieve fresca. Nuestra casa destacó de inmediato; Sarah se había superado este año con la decoración.
Cadenas de luces blancas en forma de carámbanos colgaban de los aleros, y unos renos iluminados “pastoreaban” en el césped del frente. Pero algo lucía raro.
Una casa decorada para Navidad | Fuente: Midjourney
La puerta del garaje estaba ligeramente abierta, a unos veinte centímetros del suelo, dejando escapar una fina franja de luz.
“Qué raro”, me dije, frunciendo el ceño.
Sarah siempre era meticulosa con la seguridad, sobre todo cuando yo no estaba. Comprobaba que las puertas y ventanas estuviesen cerradas tres veces antes de acostarse, un hábito que me había tranquilizado durante mis prolongadas ausencias.
Entré en el garaje y apagué el motor.
Un Automóvil aparcado en una entrada | Fuente: Midjourney
Fue entonces cuando me di cuenta de que el coche de Sarah estaba allí, y de que en el asiento trasero había dos pequeños bultos. Se me encogió el corazón al reconocer a Tommy y Jake, abrigados con sus abrigos de invierno, sentados totalmente inmóviles.
Salté del coche, y mis zapatos de vestir crujieron en la nieve fresca mientras corría hacia allí. Tommy, mi hijo de nueve años, me vio primero y abrió mucho los ojos.
“¡Papá!”, susurró en voz alta, bajando la ventanilla. “¡Todavía no deberías estar en casa!”.
Dos niños abrigados en un Automóvil | Fuente: Midjourney
“¿Qué están haciendo aquí afuera? pregunté, mirandolos a ellos y a la casa. “¡Está helado!”
Jake, mi hijo de siete años, se inclinó hacia delante, con el aliento formando nubecillas en el aire frío. “Mamá dijo que teníamos que quedarnos aquí afuera. Está haciendo cosas importantes adentro”.
“¿Cosas importantes?”, repetí. “¿Qué podría estar haciendo para enviarlos aquí fuera, con el frío que hace?”
Un hombre junto a un Automóvil en un garaje | Fuente: Midjourney
Tommy murmuró algo que no pude entender y apartó la mirada, con una expresión de culpabilidad en el rostro.
“No lo sé, papá”, respondió Jake. “Está ocupada con un hombre y dijo que teníamos que esperar aquí hasta que terminaran”.
Las palabras me golpearon como un puñetazo en .el estómago
“¿Qué hombre?”, pregunté. “¿Y cuánto tiempo llevan aquí fuera?”.
Un hombre iracundo en un garaje | Fuente: Midjourney
“No lo sé”, se encogió de hombros Tommy, ajustándose la gorrita de Spiderman. “¿Quizá veinte minutos? Mamá dijo que no podíamos entrar hasta que viniera a buscarnos. Hablaba muy en serio”.
Mi mente pensaba posibilidades, cada una peor que la anterior.
Sarah se había comportado de forma extraña durante nuestras últimas llamadas telefónicas, distraída y evasiva cuando le preguntaba por nuestros planes para las vacaciones. Lo había atribuido al estrés, pero ahora… Miré la puerta que daba al interior desde el garaje. ¿Me estaba engañando Sarah?
Un hombre preocupado | Fuente: Midjourney
La idea se clavó en mi mente como una espina. No podía imaginarme que Sarah me fuera infiel, y nada menos que en Nochebuena, pero tampoco podía quitarme de la cabeza la idea de que algo turbio estaba ocurriendo dentro de mi casa.
“Vamos, chicos”, dije, intentando mantener la voz firme. “Vamos dentro”.
“Pero mamá dijo…”, Jake empezó a protestar, con el labio inferior temblándole ligeramente.
“Ahora”, interrumpí.
Un hombre hablando con un niño | Fuente: Midjourney
Intercambiaron miradas de preocupación, pero salieron.
La puerta del garaje crujió cuando entramos. La casa estaba inusualmente oscura, salvo por un débil resplandor procedente del salón.
El corazón me latía con fuerza en los oídos mientras avanzábamos por la cocina. Podía oír voces apagadas más adelante: la risa grave de un hombre y la risita familiar de Sarah.
“Quedense detrás de mí”, susurré a los chicos, con los puños cerrados mientras nos acercábamos al salón.
Un hombre preocupado en una casa | Fuente: Midjourney
Las voces se hicieron más claras y vislumbré movimiento a través de la puerta parcialmente abierta. De repente, sentí que el anillo de boda me pesaba en el dedo.
Respiré hondo, preparándome para lo que fuera a encontrarme. Con un movimiento rápido, abrí la puerta de par en par.
“¡SORPRESA!”
La habitación estalló en luz y sonido.
Gente en una sala de estar | Fuente: Midjourney
Decenas de caras conocidas me saludaban: mis padres, la familia de Sarah, nuestros vecinos e incluso algunos compañeros de trabajo.
Una enorme pancarta de “Bienvenido a casa” se extendía sobre la chimenea y una montaña de regalos rodeaba nuestro árbol de Navidad. El aire olía a sidra caliente y a las famosas galletas de azúcar de Sarah.
Sarah se abalanzó sobre mí y me rodeó el cuello con sus brazos.
Una pareja abrazándose | Fuente: Midjourney
“¡Caíste!”, exclamó, con los ojos brillantes de picardía. “¡Deberías ver tu cara ahora mismo! Parece que viste un fantasma”.
Me quedé helado, con el cerebro luchando por comprender lo que estaba ocurriendo. Detrás de mí, Tommy y Jake estallaron a carcajadas.
“Lo hemos hecho bien, ¿verdad, mamá?”, preguntó Tommy con orgullo, saltando sobre las puntas de los pies. “¡Nos hemos quedado en el automóvil tal y como dijiste!”.
Un niño feliz | Fuente: Midjourney
Sarah se rió, apretando a los dos. “¡Han estado perfectos! ¡Tu padre no tenía ni idea! Y ni siquiera se quejaron del frío”.
“El hombre…” Empecé, aún procesándolo todo. “Oí la voz de un hombre…”.
“Ese era yo”, se adelantó mi hermano Mike, sonriendo. “Alguien tenía que ayudar a preparar el equipo de sonido para la fiesta. Aunque tengo que decir, hermano, luces como si estuvieras listo para pelar. ¿Debería preocuparme?”
Un hombre sonriente | Fuente: Midjourney
La tensión de mis hombros se liberó por fin, sustituida por una oleada de alivio y vergüenza. Sarah debió de ver mi cara, porque volvió a acercarse a mí.
“Mike nos contó tu plan de sorprendernos volviendo pronto a casa”, me susurró al oído, con su perfume familiar y reconfortante. “Así que decidí adelantarme. Feliz Navidad, cariño”.
“Genio malvado”, murmuré, sonriendo por fin. “¿Cuánto tiempo llevas planeándolo?
Una mujer con una sonrisa pícara hablando con su marido | Fuente: Midjourney
“Desde que me enteré”, admitió. “Supuse que necesitabas algo especial para volver a casa”.
El resto de la noche transcurrió entre risas, comida e innumerables relatos sobre cómo habían conseguido la sorpresa.
Mi madre no paraba de abrazarme, con los ojos empañados cada vez que me miraba. Papá no dejaba de darme palmadas en la espalda, mientras los chicos contaban con entusiasmo su papel en el engaño a cualquiera que quisiera escucharlos.
Familia y amigos celebrando juntos la Nochebuena | Fuente: Pexels
“Y luego tuvimos que sentarnos muy quietos en el auto”, explicó Jake a sus primos por tercera vez, haciendo un gesto dramático. “¡Como ninjas en una misión secreta!”.
“Lo más difícil fue no enviarte mensajes de texto al respecto”, admitió mi madre más tarde, mientras nos servíamos el ponche navideño de Sarah. “Cada vez que hablábamos, tenía miedo de meter la pata y mencionar algo sobre la fiesta”.
“No puedo creer que todo el mundo guardara el secreto”, dije, viendo cómo Tommy mostraba a su abuelo la técnica adecuada para mojar galletas de azúcar en chocolate caliente.
Una pareja sentada junta | Fuente: Midjourney
“Bueno, todos te echábamos de menos”, respondió suavemente. “Ésta era nuestra forma de demostrártelo”.
Más tarde, cuando los invitados se fueron y los niños se fueron a la cama, Sarah y yo nos sentamos en el sofá a contemplar el centelleo de las luces del árbol de Navidad.
La casa aún vibraba con el resplandor de la fiesta: tazas vacías en la mesa de café, restos de papel de regalo bajo el árbol y el calor persistente de haber estado llena de seres queridos.
Una pareja conversando | Fuente: Midjourney
“No puedo creer que me hayas engañado tan bien”, admití, acercándola hacia mi. “Cuando vi a los chicos en el automóvil y oí hablar del ‘hombre misterioso’… pensé cosas oscuras”.
Se rió suavemente, entrelazando sus dedos con los míos. “Casi me siento mal por esa parte. Casi. Pero tienes que admitir que fue una vuelta a casa inolvidable”.
Pensé en los regalos que aún tenía en el maletero del automóvil, los que había seleccionado cuidadosamente para compensar mi ausencia.
Un hombre reflexivo y sonriente | Fuente: Midjourney
Ahora me parecían casi una tontería, comparados con lo que Sarah me había dado esta noche: esta demonstración de lo mucho que me querían y de cuánta gente se había reunido para darme la bienvenida a casa.
“Sí”, asentí, besándole la cabeza. “Inolvidable es sin duda la palabra”.
La nieve seguía cayendo fuera de nuestra ventana, pero yo ya apenas notaba el frío. Tras meses de habitaciones de hotel y conferencias telefónicas, por fin estaba donde debía estar.
Nieve cayendo en un área suburbana | Fuente: Pexels
Sarah se movió a mi lado, bostezando. “Probablemente deberíamos limpiar el resto de este desastre”.
“Déjalo para mañana”, dije, acercándola. “Ahora mismo, sólo quiero sentarme aquí contigo y disfrutar de estar en casa”.
Sonrió y apoyó la cabeza en mi hombro. “Bienvenida a casa, amor. Feliz Navidad”.
Esta es otra historia: Sospeché cuando mi controladora madre nos exigió que utilizáramos su árbol de Navidad especial la primera vez que organizábamos la reunión familiar. Sin embargo, su falta de exigencias decorativas me cogió desprevenida… hasta que lo enchufamos y descubrimos la verdadera razón por la que insistía tanto en ese árbol.
Esta obra está inspirada en hechos y personas reales, pero se ha ficcionalizado con fines creativos. Se han cambiado nombres, personajes y detalles para proteger la intimidad y mejorar la narración. Cualquier parecido con personas reales, vivas o muertas, o con hechos reales es pura coincidencia y no es intención del autor.
El autor y el editor no garantizan la exactitud de los acontecimientos ni la representación de los personajes, y no se hacen responsables de ninguna interpretación errónea. Esta historia se proporciona “tal cual”, y las opiniones expresadas son las de los personajes y no reflejan los puntos de vista del autor ni del editor.
My Grandma Served Her Church for 50 Years Until They Gave Her Nothing When She Needed Them—Her Will Contained the Perfect Payback
When Eleanor is abandoned by the church she served for nearly 50 years, her silence speaks louder than any sermon. As her granddaughter watches heartbreak turn into clarity, one final act of truth is set in motion. This is an unforgettable story of legacy, faith, and the quiet power of not being forgotten.
The day of my grandmother’s funeral was sunny. No thunderclaps, no storm clouds. Just warmth. The kind she always carried with her.
Her name was Eleanor and she served her church for nearly five decades without ever asking for anything. Until she needed them. And they gave her nothing.
A funeral altar | Source: Midjourney
Not one church leader came. Not by mistake but by design. They were not invited.
It wasn’t always like this, though. My grandmother was a pillar in that church. A Southern Baptist congregation that prided itself on “family values,” tradition, and photo ops of the pastors shaking hands with senators.
She was the kind of woman who showed up without being asked, who filled in for the sick nursery worker, cooked extra casseroles, and stayed late to wipe down folding tables.
Casseroles of food on a table | Source: Midjourney
She taught Youth Bible Study every Sunday night, helped plan fellowship dinners, drove the church van to retreats and choir tours. She tithed faithfully and gave extra Home Missions. She even funded scholarships for church kids who couldn’t afford to go on mission trips.
Nobody asked her to, she just did it.
She was faithful. She was humble. She was invisible, in the way that older women who do all the work and none of the talking often are.
A smiling older woman | Source: Midjourney
Her greatest gift wasn’t her service, it was how she made people feel. You never left Eleanor’s kitchen or classroom without feeling taller. She saw you. That was her superpower.
I was seven the first time I stayed at Grandma Eleanor’s house by myself. Grandpa Walter was away on a fishing trip. So, it was just me and her. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, scared by a dream I couldn’t remember, and padding down the hallway in my socks.
I didn’t even have to knock, she was already opening the door.
A little girl standing in a hallway | Source: Midjourney
She let me crawl into her bed without a word. Her sheets smelled like lavender and old books. She hummed a hymn I didn’t know the words to, but the melody stuck with me for years. Her hand rubbed soft circles on my back until my breath slowed.
That was her magic. She didn’t always know what to say. But she knew what you needed.
When I had my first heartbreak at 16, she was the only one I wanted to talk to. She didn’t give advice. She didn’t offer clichés. She just poured sweet tea into glass jars and sat with me on the porch.
Two glass jars of sweet tea | Source: Midjourney
At one point, she reached over, tapped my knee, and said, “If someone makes you feel small, they don’t belong near the big, beautiful things inside you.”
I cried harder after that, not because I was sad but because she saw me. She always had.
She taught me how to pray, how to iron a blouse properly, and how to take the high road without letting people walk all over me. She had this quiet strength that felt like standing next to a mountain.
An upset teenage girl sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
No flash. No noise. Just steady, solid presence.
She was more than my grandmother. She was the compass I measured the world against.
And when she was abandoned, when they made her feel small, I promised myself I wouldn’t let that be the last chapter in her story.
An upset older woman | Source: Midjourney
My grandmother was 73 when everything changed. She was in a car accident that left her disabled. Her legs never fully recovered. Her bones ached constantly. The woman who used to garden before sunrise now struggled to climb the porch steps without her cane.
So, she wrote letters. She called. She asked the congregation for rides, prayer, and even visits.
They didn’t come. Not even one of them.
A car accident scene | Source: Midjourney
Not Pastor J., the man who baptized her grandkids and gave her the plaque for “Most Years of Service.”
Not Pastor M., the younger one who took over youth ministry and once proudly announced to the congregation that “Miss Eleanor’s potato salad could save souls.”
For ten years, she stayed home. She listened to sermons online.
A bowl of potato salad | Source: Midjourney
“Come home, Callie,” she told me one day on the phone. “Let’s listen to sermons together, baby. Let’s pray together. And when we’re done, we can have some fresh scones and jam. I’ve been teaching Grandpa how to bake.”
I used to do exactly what she wanted. She was my favorite person in the entire world, I would have done anything she asked.
Gran mailed in her tithe. She still sent cute birthday cards and batches of cupcakes to the church kids she used to teach.
A plate of scones and jam on a kitchen table | Source: Midjourney
And still, they never came.
I was 16 when I first realized what was happening. I visited Grandma every Sunday after church, still wearing my dress and heels, sometimes bringing her slices of lemon cake from the bakery she liked.
Every time, without fail, she’d ask the same thing.
“Did you see Pastor J., my Callie? Did he say anything about me?”
At first, I lied. Not big lies, just small, soft ones that would land easy on her heart.
Slices of lemon cake in a bakery | Source: Midjourney
“He says he’s praying for you,” I’d nod. “He asked how you were doing. He said he misses your cornbread, Gran.”
It made her smile. That kind of hopeful, aching smile people wear when they know something isn’t true but need to believe it anyway. I hated how easily she accepted the scraps of comfort I gave her.
But one day, I couldn’t do it anymore.
She asked me the question again as she added a spoon of sugar to her tea. She was all hopeful eyes and soft cardigan sleeves.
Pieces of cornbread on a wooden board | Source: Midjourney
This time I wasn’t going to lie.
“Gran… they don’t talk about you anymore. I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean, Callie?” she asked.
“I mean… they don’t ask about you.”
She didn’t flinch. She just nodded once. Like she already knew. Like her heart had already made peace with being forgotten. But I could see it in the way her hand stopped mid-stir in her tea.
A cup of milky tea on a side table | Source: Midjourney
She didn’t drink it that day.
And she never brought them up again.
The final blow came when she was dying.
She was in hospice, frail and shrinking into herself. Her skin was papery against the white sheets. Machines beeped softly in the background like a countdown. Her breath rattled in her chest. Still, she asked for Pastor J.
An older woman laying in a bed | Source: Midjourney
“Just to talk, Callie,” she said, sighing. “Just once more. I want to go over the services. The hymn that will be sung. That verse in Isaiah, the one about wings like eagles.”
I nodded and told her that I’d pass the message along. But he never came.
Instead, Pastor M. showed up. With his too-white teeth and shiny shoes. He smiled too much. He walked fast and talked even faster, like he was on a timer.
A pensive young woman | Source: Midjourney
He stayed exactly 15 minutes and spent 12 of them circling the same question.
“Have you remembered the church in your will, Eleanor?”
My jaw almost touched the ground.
“I know you’ve always had a generous heart, Eleanor,” he said, placing a hand on hers like he owned it. “And the Lord sees your faithfulness. A bequest could mean a new roof. A scholarship. A real legacy.”
A close up of a man wearing glasses | Source: Midjourney
He didn’t ask if she was afraid. He didn’t ask what she needed. He didn’t ask which hymns spoke to her soul. Instead, cold and calculated, he asked about money.
My grandfather stood in the corner of the hospice room, fists clenched so tight, his knuckles turned white. His jaw moved, like he was chewing the words back down.
“She’s not gone yet,” he said. “And this isn’t the time.”
A close up of an older man | Source: Midjourney
Pastor M. smiled wider, like he was used to swallowing shame and calling it grace.
“Just planting seeds, Brother Walter. Planting seeds for something beautiful to grow…” he said, patting the air like he was blessing us.
He left with the same smug calm he walked in with. Clipboard tucked under his arm. Collared shirt crisp. Not one word about heaven. Not one word about Gran’s life.
A clipboard on a side table | Source: Midjourney
After the door clicked shut, silence filled the room like smoke. Then Gran cried.
I hadn’t seen her cry in years. Not after the accident. Not when she lost friends or strength or dignity. But this? This cut something deeper.
“He didn’t ask me about my soul,” she whispered. “He just asked me about my money.”
My grandfather sat beside her then. He didn’t say much. He just held her hand, the way he always did when words weren’t enough.
A crying old woman | Source: Midjourney
I remember sitting there, watching the two of them, feeling the grief shift inside me. Not just for what we were losing but for how little she got back after giving so much.
That day, something broke. But not in a bitter way. It was clarity.
In the six months that followed, Gran planned. Quietly, steadily. With every ounce of intention she’d once poured into youth retreats and Bible study lessons, she rewrote the final chapter of her story.
A side view of a young woman | Source: Midjourney
And when she passed, we honored her the way she would’ve wanted. Without hypocrisy. The service was held in a modest funeral home, not the church. Just soft music, folding chairs, and people who showed up.
My grandfather made that call.
“They don’t get to grieve her in public when they ignored her in private,” he said.
He stood at the front of the room that day. Gran’s worn leather Bible pressed to his chest like a shield. His voice didn’t shake. He wasn’t angry, just honest.
An old Bible and a vase of flowers | Source: Midjourney
“The church she gave her life to gave her nothing in return. They abandoned our Eleanor. And when she was dying, they came to ask for her money, not her forgiveness, not her blessing. Just her estate.”
We sang “It Is Well with My Soul,” the same hymn that my grandmother used to hum while kneading dough in her kitchen. We passed the mic and people stood up to share stories. About Gran’s cornbread, her Sunday hugs, the time she drove a van full of rowdy teens to the next state and kept her cool with nothing but peppermint oil and a firm voice.
She was remembered, not for her giving, but for who she gave herself to.
A bottle of peppermint essential oil | Source: Midjourney
Two weeks later, we gathered for the reading of the will. Denise, Gran’s lawyer, had been in her Bible study group years ago. She wore soft blue that day and smiled gently at all of us before opening the folder in her lap.
I was surprised to see the Pastors walk in, dressed to the nines, looking around the room like they owned it.
“I heard she left something to the church,” Pastor M. said to no one in particular. He smirked like he already knew he was getting a windfall.
A lawyer wearing a blue pantsuit | Source: Midjourney
The will began.
To Grandpa, her husband of 54 years, Gran left her portion of the house and their joint savings, and a letter about the first time they danced barefoot in the kitchen.
“You gave me the strength to give to everyone else,” she wrote. “Now, I give it all back to you, my love.”
A smiling old man | Source: Midjourney
To me, she left her recipe book, her first Bible with the pages worn soft from love, and a bracelet she said she bought when I was born because the stone reminded her of my eyes.
“My Callie girl, you’re the light of every room. You’ve been one of the brightest lights in my life, sweetheart.”
To the others, she left quilts she had sewn herself, heirlooms tucked into labeled boxes, small accounts for the kids’ college funds, and handwritten notes folded like prayers.
A pensive young woman | Source: Midjourney
Then Denise paused. She looked directly at the two pastors and cleared her throat.
“This next portion is directed toward the Pastors. It is a personal statement from Eleanor.”
Denise unfolded a second piece of paper and began to read.
“To the pastors of the church I once called home:
A letter on a desk | Source: Midjourney
I loved you. I served the Lord alongside you. I gave you decades of my life. But in my final years, when I could no longer bring you food or money, I became invisible to you. I waited for calls that never came. I invited you in, and you stayed away.
You left me alone. Until it was time to collect. And then, all you wanted was what I could give you. Not my stories. Not my fears. Not my prayers. Just my assets.
An older woman standing outside a church | Source: Midjourney
I once planned to leave 20% of my estate to the church. I believed in the mission. I believed in you.
Pastor J., you ignored me.
Pastor M., you reduced me to a transaction.
For that, you each receive one cent.
My final donation has gone instead to Reverend Lila Hayes. She brought me meals. She prayed with me. She sat with Walter and Callie and my children. She was at the hands and feet of the Lord when you were just the mouth. You broke my heart. But I won’t let you profit from it.”
A smiling woman in a navy dress | Source: Midjourney
“This is unnecessary,” Pastor J. muttered. “Cruel.”
“No,” my grandfather said, rising beside me. “What you did was cruel. This is just truth. And it’s long overdue.”
They left without another word.
The money that my grandmother donated was enough to fund a year of the church’s charity pantry, legal aid for foster families, and new books for their children’s literacy program.
A stack of children’s books | Source: Midjourney
“Your grandmother was a light. Thank you for letting her shine one more time.”
And that was my grandmother, Eleanor.
“Hopefully those fools have learned their lesson, Callie,” Grandpa Walter said. “It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”
A smiling older woman standing outside a church | Source: Midjourney
If you’ve enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |
For eight years, Clover has kept Sanctum Noctis hidden, a secret safe house for children with nowhere else to go. But when one of them makes a mistake, she’s forced into a deadly game with Michael… the man she once escaped. This time, she’s not running. This time, she fights.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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