مولد صوت AI hamza من Fish Audio

Dad always told people he worked in "facility maintenance." Pretty vague, right? But that's how it was in our town. Everyone's parents had these weird job titles that meant nothing. When visitors asked questions, we'd just smile and change the subject.

Dad always told visitors we had a "special" security system at home. No cameras you could see, but somehow mom always knew if someone came by while we were out. "Just standard government protocol," she'd say with that knowing smile of hers.

Dad always told people he worked in "data processing." Pretty vague, right? But that's how it was in our house. The computer he brought home had government stickers all over it, and he'd never let us peek at his screen. Just another normal day in classified family life.

Dad always told people he was just a maintenance worker. But the hours were weird, and sometimes he'd come home looking tired in ways regular maintenance guys don't. The security badges changed colors every month, and we learned not to ask why.

Dad always said our house was different too. No satellite dishes allowed, no photos from certain angles. When friends asked about the weird rules, I'd just shrug and say "government housing guidelines." Like mom's job, some things were better left unexplained.

Dad always told visitors we had a normal suburban life. But normal families don't have weekly security sweeps or get calls at midnight about "special patients." Mom would just smile and say some medical emergencies can't wait for daylight.

Dad always told people he was just a security contractor. But I noticed how he'd get calls at weird hours, and sometimes he'd disappear for days. When my friends asked, I'd just shrug and say he worked nights. We all understood the unspoken rules.

Dad always told us not to mention mom's work at school. When friends asked why she worked nights, I'd just shrug and say "government stuff." It became normal, like the black cars that sometimes followed us or the strange calls at midnight.