Генератор Голосов AI hamza от 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 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 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 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.

Last week, my stepfather tried to force me to sell my shares in grandpa's company. He offered $5 million cash. I laughed and said, "You don't get it. This isn't about money." The look on his face when I walked away was priceless.

I gathered the fragments of hope like fallen leaves, each one a memory you left behind. Time taught me that empty spaces speak louder than promises. Now I understand that letting go isn't surrender – it's choosing myself.

The old photograph fell from between the pages of my father's journal. It showed three men in white lab coats standing before a steel door marked "Section 7." Dad never mentioned working there, but then again, there were many things he never discussed.