The Gentle Grip
The house in the suburbs was a masterpiece of beige and symmetry. The lawn was a carpet of emerald green, the windows were always sparkling, and the air inside smelled of lemon polish and fresh cinnamon rolls. It was the kind of home that appeared in brochures for the "Perfect American Life." Diane, the matriarch, was the soul of this perfection. She was a woman of infinite patience and a smile...
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