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But comfort, he learned too late, has a way of softening conversations and hardening hearts. His children grew up with tutors and vacations, his wife with designer furniture and charity luncheons, and gradually the dinners they once shared at a scratched wooden table turned into brief exchanges between meetings, flights, and social obligations. When he spoke, people listened, but rarely asked how he felt, and when he was silent, no one noticed. Somewhere between the contracts and the accolades, a question lodged itself in his mind and refused to leave: if everything disappeared tomorrow, would anyone stay for him, or only for what he provided?
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