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07/02/2026

I had a son when I was seventeen years old. It affected my growth and slowed down my life. My dad became my enemy, and he stopped taking care of me. The man I had the child with ran away. He was older. He feared the repercussions. I saw my mates going to school and having dreams, and it pained my heart, but I told myself, “God gave me a child, and that’s fine.”

I went back to complete SHS through the help of my aunt, and after SHS, I started hating my son. I’d come to accept he was the reason my life had stalled. I’d come to hate what his father did to me and the fact that he’d run away. I hated to see his face, so I did everything to stay away from him.

After SHS, my mom called me to come home for the child, and I went. He was five years then. I put everything he had together, went to the compound of his father’s house, and left him there. I traveled back to my aunt because, from all indications, she was going to help me through tertiary. My parents heard what I’d done and went back for the boy, but this time, they didn’t ask me to come for him.

My dad died when I was in my first year in training school. When I went home, I saw my son and couldn’t look at him in the face. He recognized me and tried coming to me. I avoided him until I finally left town without telling anyone.

I completed training school and started working. My mom sent me a message to come for the boy so he could attend a good school. I had no choice, so I went for him. He lives with me now, and I’ve looked for every opportunity to dump him somewhere. I’ve visited his father’s home several times asking where the man is. They tell me they also don’t know his whereabouts.

I’m currently thirty years old but have no love life because of my son. I’ll meet a man today and tell him I have a son, and the next moment, he’ll ghost me. I’ve met great people. Those with money and those with big hearts. They all vanished because they didn’t want a woman with a child.

So I stopped telling them I had a child. That’s how I dated Samson for two years, and all that while he thought my son was the last-born of my mother. I warned him not to call me mom. I asked him to call me by my name, and he learned to. But the truth does come out eventually, right? Samson got to know about it, and currently, he’s also ghosting me.

I regret this life already. I yearn to belong to a man. I yearn to have a life that’s only mine and not a child in it. Unfortunately, he’s tied to the hip of my story, and I can’t tell the story without him coming up. My aunt wants me to send him to her. She wants me to have a man first, settle with him, and later come for him. Sending him away doesn’t change the story, and I’m scared I will continue to hate him if I send him away, so he’s with me and currently learning to love him each passing day.

It’s not his fault, but it’s also his fault. It’s not his doing, but he’s the one doing me—the reason I can’t find love. And then I had this thought recently that maybe the love I’m looking for is in him, and once I learn to love him, the rest will fall in place. So I’m learning. It gets better each day. Yesterday we looked at each other and we smiled. It felt genuine. It felt deep. Night by night, growth will happen in the dark, but we’ll definitely see it when the day comes. He’s mine. I’ll learn to treat him like he actually is.

16/01/2026

Last night, I was on the phone laughing and talking with a close friend of mine. In the midst of our conversation, she began sharing about her bloodline and what she learned about relationships from her father. She described him as emotionally unavailable, disconnected, and difficult to access. As she continued talking, she suddenly realized something. She said, “I keep entertaining and attracting men who are emotionally unavailable… just like my father.”

And I stopped her right there.

I told her, “That is not coincidence. That is not bad luck. That is an assignment of the enemy. You are a serving, loving, emotionally present woman, and the enemy is using other people who should be giving you emotional presence to deny you. That is warfare.”

I reminded her of who she is. I told her that she deserves someone who mirrors her emotional availability, her depth, her softness, her presence. I told her that the pattern in her life is not accidental. It is targeted.

And that’s when it hit her.

She began going through her relational history out loud. One by one, naming the men. The situations. The connections. And as she spoke, she said, “That’s the one thing they all had in common. They would buy me things. They would show up in ways that looked good on the surface. But they denied me emotionally. Every single one of them.”

Provision without presence.
Access without intimacy.
Appearance without availability.

That is not random. That is a strategy.

I told her, “This is bloodline. This is imprint. This is inheritance. And it has to be confronted.”

As I was speaking, I felt it. That subtle, heavy resistance in the atmosphere. That pushback that lets you know you just put your finger on something that does not want to be exposed. I wasn’t sure if she was really taking in what I was saying. The conversation stayed light, and I didn’t press her. I left it there.

Later that night, I went to sleep.

And I had a dream.

In the dream, I saw my friend. I also saw a demon. It had horns like a ram. And I could feel its presence before I even saw it. Heavy. Angry. Territorial. The atmosphere was thick. Charged. Pressurized. I could feel its rage. I could feel its hatred. I could feel its authority posturing.

It was standing directly between me and my friend as if she were its property. As if it owned her. As if it had claim. As if I was trespassing.

It was not lurking.
It was not hiding.
It was positioned.

And then it spoke.

Not to her.
To me.

With anger in its voice and ownership in its posture, it said:

“Stay out of this!”

I woke up gasping for air. My heart was racing. My body was shaking. I could still feel the presence of that thing. That was not imagination. That was not symbolic. That was confrontation. That was territory. That was ownership being challenged.

That spirit was not speaking to my friend.
It was speaking to me.

Because I had interfered.
Because I had disrupted.
Because I had touched access.
Because I had named the assignment.
Because I had exposed the pattern.

And it did not like it.

As soon as I came to myself, I knew I needed to call her. Even though it was early. Even though she is on Pacific time. Even though it was barely 5 a.m. her time. I called anyway.

Because when you know, you know.

When she answered, I told her about the dream. And she gasped. She said, “Oh my God.”

Then she told me something that stopped me in my tracks.

She said that after we got off the phone that night, she got in her car and went into full warfare mode. She said she started yelling at her bloodline strongman because she could see clearly what was being reinforced in her life. She said she was telling it that it could not have her, that it had no more access to her, and that she was breaking agreement with his emotional abuse assignment.

And in that moment, everything made sense.

The resistance.
The dream.
The warning.
The timing.

Conversation.
Confrontation.
Clarity.
Warfare.
Spiritual reaction.
Warning.

That is not coincidence. That is cause and effect.

I knew immediately that we had hit it.

We had hit the nerve.
We had hit the strongman.
We had hit the thing that has been contending with this woman of God’s relationships without a shadow of a doubt.

And although the dream was uncomfortable, startling, and intense, I was honored.

Because that’s my sister.

And the mere fact that we located what has been fighting her is thrilling to me. The mere fact that the enemy reacted means we were right. The mere fact that it showed itself means we touched the legal right.

For weeks, I have been praying for her. For clarity. For freedom. For alignment. Because I want to see my sister walk down the aisle. She deserves to be loved well. She deserves emotional safety. She deserves presence. She deserves consistency. She deserves depth.

And I will gladly disturb hell for that.

This is what happens when you begin to intercede for people. You do not just pray. You disrupt plans. You interrupt assignments. You interfere with access.

The enemy heard me building her up.
The enemy heard me naming the pattern.
The enemy heard me affirming her worth.
The enemy heard me exposing the strategy.

And it responded.

Not because I was wrong.
But because I was right.

This is why many people stay stuck. Because they are treating warfare like personality. They are calling patterns “just how I am.” They are calling assignments “my type.” They are calling inheritance “bad luck.”

And it is none of that.

It is strategy.

And when you start dismantling it, don’t be surprised when something reacts.

That does not mean you are wrong.
It means you are right on time.

The Power Pusher, LICSW

Join my upcoming bloodline mapping Masterclass!

15/01/2026

"MY WIFE FOUND OUT I SECRETLY MARRIED A SECOND WIFE AND SHE SUDDENLY CHANGED"... PART ONE

My name is Chinedu. I'm 42 years old.
And I need to get this off my chest.

My wife has completely changed.
And I don't know what to do anymore.

When I married Ngozi fifteen years ago, she was perfect.
Sweet.
Respectful.
Submissive.
She cooked every day.
Cleaned the house.
Took care of me.
Took care of our children.

She was everything a man could ask for.

But now?

Now she's a completely different person.

Cold.
Distant.
Uninterested.

And it all started when she found out about my second wife.

Let me explain how it happened and started.

Ngozi and I have four children together.

Beautiful children.
But raising them hasn't been easy.
School fees. Feeding. Clothing. Medical bills.

The costs kept piling up.

So Ngozi had to work.

She's a teacher.

Doesn't make much, but she contributes.
She pays some of the school fees.
Buys food for the house.
Helps with bills.
I appreciated it at first.

But over time, I started to notice things.
She would come home from work tired.
Smelling like chalk and sweat.
Sometimes she'd cook immediately.
Other times she'd rest first.

The house wasn't always as clean as it used to be.

Her hair wasn't always done.
She wore the same wrappers over and over.
And when she cooked, the smell would stick to her.

Egusi.
Ogbono.
Palm oil.

I'm not saying it's her fault.

But a man needs his wife to look good.
To smell good.
To make him want to come home.
I tried to tell her.

Gently at first.

"Ngozi, maybe you should shower before cooking."
"Ngozi, when last did you change this wrapper?"
"Ngozi, you're always tired these days."
She would just look at me.

Exhausted.

And say, "I'm trying my best, it's not easy and you don't help out...how can me,a man...help a woman out...???

But her best wasn't enough anymore.

I'm a man.
I have needs.

And if my wife can't meet them, what am I supposed to do?

That's when I met Adaeze.

She worked at a salon in town.
Always well dressed.
Always smelling like perfume and beauty.
Always smiling.

She didn't have children yet.
Didn't have stress.

She had time to take care of herself.

To look beautiful.
We started talking.
One thing led to another.

And before I knew it, she was pregnant.

I didn't plan to marry her.
At least not officially.
But she insisted.

Her family insisted.

They said if I didn't marry her properly, they would disgrace me publicly.

So I did..

A small ceremony.

Just her family and a few friends.

I didn't tell Ngozi. I didn't tell my children.
I thought I could manage both.

Keep them separate. I mean,men are polygamous in nature.

But somehow, Ngozi found out.
I don't know how.
Maybe someone saw me.
Maybe Adaeze said something.

But one day, Ngozi just looked at me and said:
"So you married her..? God will judge both of you...
Not a question.

A statement.
I tried to deny it.

"Married who? What are you talking about?"

She didn't argue.
Didn't shout.
Didn't cry.
She just looked at me.

And nodded.

"Okay," she said.

That was it.

I thought she had accepted it.

Some women do. Infact most women do.

They understand that a man can have more than one wife.

Especially if the first wife isn't performing her duties properly.

But I was wrong.
She hadn't accepted it.
She had just decided to stop trying.

It started small.

She stopped cooking.
Not completely.

But instead of cooking fresh meals every day, she would cook once and reheat for days.
Or she would just boil yam and serve it with palm oil.

No stew. No soup.

"I'm tired," she would say when I complained.

Then she stopped cleaning.

The house was no longer spotless.
Dishes would pile up in the sink.

Clothes would stay in the laundry basket for days.

"The children can help," she said. "I can't do everything."

Then the money stopped.

She used to contribute to the house.
School fees. Food. Bills.

But after she found out about Adaeze, she stopped.

"You have two wives now," she said calmly. "You figure it out." Let her help too...

I was shocked.

"What do you mean, figure it out? These are YOUR children too!"

"Exactly," she said. "MY children. Not hers. So you'll take care of them. Like a father should."

And just like that, everything fell on me.

Adaeze, my second wife, lives in a rented apartment.

I pay the rent.
I pay for her feeding.
I pay for everything the baby needs.

And I'm still paying for Ngozi and the four children at home.

School fees for four children.
Feeding for six people.
Medical bills.
Transport.
Rent.
It's too much.

I thought marrying Adaeze would make me happy.

Give me peace.

But instead, I'm drowning.

I tried talking to Ngozi.

"Things were better before," I said. "When we worked together."

"We're still working together," she said. "You're working. I'm working. Just separately now."

"But you used to contribute to the house—"

"I used to do a lot of things," she interrupted. "I used to cook for you every day. Clean your house. Wash your clothes. Submit to you. Respect you."

She looked at me.

Cold.

"But you still weren't satisfied," she said. "So why should I keep trying?"

The intimacy stopped too.
Completely.
She sleeps on her side of the bed.
I sleep on mine.
We barely talk.

When I try to touch her, she moves away.

"I'm tired," she says.

Always tired.

I asked her once, "Are you punishing me?"
She laughed.
A bitter laugh.

"No," she said. "I'm protecting myself."
"From what?"

"From you," she said.

My mother noticed when she came.

She came to visit and saw the state of the house.

The unwashed dishes.
The unswept floors.
The tired look on Ngozi's face.
She pulled her aside.

I heard them talking in the kitchen.

"What is wrong with you?" my mother asked. "Why is this house like this?"

"I'm tired, Mama," Ngozi said simply.

"Tired of what?" my mother snapped. "You have a husband. Children. A home. What more do you want?"

"I want rest," Ngozi said.

"Rest?" my mother repeated. "You can rest when you're dead! Right now, you have responsibilities!"

"Your husband is going outside because you're not taking care of him!" my mother continued.
Ngozi said nothing.

"Look at you," my mother said. "Your hair is not done. Your wrapper is old. You smell like kitchen. What man wants to come home to that?"

Still, Ngozi said nothing.

"You need to check yourself," my mother said. "Find out what you're doing wrong. What is that other woman doing right that you're not doing?"

I expected Ngozi to cry.

To apologize.

To promise to do better.

But she didn't.

She just looked at my mother.
And smiled.

"Mama," she said calmly, "if you think she's doing something right, then your son should stay with her."

My mother was stunned.

"Are you talking back to me?"

"No, Mama," Ngozi said. "I'm just tired. Very, very tired."

And she walked away.

That was six months ago.
Nothing has changed.
In fact, it's gotten worse.

Adaeze is demanding more money.

The baby is growing.

He needs things.
Clothes. Diapers. Formula.

And Ngozi has completely stopped contributing.

She pays for her own things now.

Her clothes. Her hair. Her transport.
But nothing for the house.

"You wanted two wives," she said when I confronted her. "Now you have two wives. So take care of both."

I'm barely surviving.

The other day, Adaeze called me.
Crying.

"I thought you said you were taking care of your first wife," she said. "But I heard she's working. Why am I the only one at home?"

"She has to work," I explained. "We have four children—"

"And I have YOUR son!" she shouted. "Why should I suffer while she's comfortable?"

I didn't know what to say.

Because the truth is, Ngozi is more comfortable.beautiful and glowing now.

She's just surviving.
We're all just surviving.

And I'm the one paying for everything.

I look at Ngozi sometimes.
And I don't recognize her.

She's not the woman I married.

She's harder now.

Colder.

She doesn't smile at me anymore.
Doesn't ask about my day.

Doesn't try to please me.

She just exists.
In the same house.
But miles away from me.

And I don't know how to get her back.
People tell me I should discipline her.

"You're the head of the house," they say. "Put your foot down."

But what can I do?

She's not disobeying me.

She's just... not trying anymore.

And I can't force her to care.

I regret it sometimes.
Marrying Adaeze.
Not because I don't love her.
But because of what it cost me.

My peace.
My money.
And Ngozi.

The woman who stood by me for fifteen years.
Who gave me four children.
Who worked and cooked and cleaned and never complained.

Until I gave her a reason to.

Now I'm stuck.

Paying for two households.
Trying to keep two women happy.

And failing at both.

Ngozi doesn't love me anymore.
I can see it in her eyes.

Adaeze is starting to resent me.

Because I can't give her the life I promised.
And I'm exhausted.

Financially.
Emotionally.
Physically.

I just want things to go back to the way they were.

When Ngozi was sweet.
When she contributed to the house.
When she smiled at me.

But I know that woman is gone.
And I'm the one who killed her.

To be continued...

Follow and engage for the wife's side of the story.
Benjamin Peace

14/01/2026

I never loved my husband. In fact, when we were dating, I was only using him to pass time after coming out of a very hùŕtful breakup. He was there for me and he was kind. I gradually developed a liking for him in the process, but deep down I knew I didn’t love him.
A few months later, I found out I was pregnant. He asked that I keep the baby, went to see my people, and asked me to marry him. I couldn’t say no. I was already pregnant and didn’t want to disappoint my family after they had sponsored me through school as the only graduate in the family. I thought about it for a long time but eventually decided to go ahead with the marriage. We did both the traditional and court weddings.
However, I always felt something wasn’t right. I knew he wasn’t the man for me. He is a good person and very family-oriented, but the feeling just wasn’t there. I tried to love him because we were married, but the more I tried, the more I found myself d!sliking him.
After I had my first son, we started having serious issues. I had a traumatic labour experience and eventually had a CS. I became very scared of s*x. Each time he came close to me, I would run away. He then started ch£àting, and other issues sprang up from there. We fo^ught constantly, sometimes àŕgu!ng about s£x till daybreak. I became very withdrawn and couldn’t even tell anyone how I felt. The small liking I once had for him completely dì£d. S£x became a tùg of war. I felt he didn’t own me, even though we were married. I wasn’t seeing anyone else and had nobody in mind, but I couldn’t open myself up to him anymore. He had a series of affairs and kept complaining that I was the one pushing him away. I would see his chats and conversations with other women, and it only made things woŕs£. With every f!ght, the hàtr£d increased. Now, I feel d!sgust£d and !rr!tated anytime he tries to touch me.
He is now trying, saying he has changed and all that, but I am done. I want to walk away. It has been almost seven years, and we have two kids. I just want to leave. Will it be wrong if I do? I feel absolutely nothing for him, and I know I’ve also contributed to our pŕobl£ms.
I used to hear stories of women who married men they didn’t love and eventually fell in love with them. Why is mine different? I tried to spice things up, to make myself fall in love with him, to be understanding despite the challenges, but nothing is working. Instead, my heart keeps telling me I don’t belong here.
I’ve been faithful, but I won’t say I’ve been myself around him 100%. We barely understand each other. We have very different views about life, and I can’t even point out areas where we are compatible. We are just living like strangers because of the kids.
We’ve had so many issues that family and even the church have intervened. He keeps telling them that I am unforgiving and that I don’t let things go. I feel I married wrong.
I’ve wanted to walk away for a long time, but the fear of starting all over has held me back. He is a great father, I won’t li£. The kids adore him, and he takes very good care of them. He provides for them fully. He has his flaws, and I have mine too.
I don’t want to make mistakes, but deep down I know we weren’t meant to be. I’ve prayed—before you tell me to pray. I’ve fasted. I joined the Hallelujah Challenge, asking God to turn my heart toward him, but nothing is working. It feels like my heart is turned against him. I can be with him and still feel completely s£x-starved. I don’t want to stay and ch£àt.
He has asked that I leave the kids with him, which I am okay with, because I can’t even take care of them properly right now. I feel like I entered this marriage to please my family, not myself, and I feel like I’m drowning in it every day. I’ve been in and out of d£pression.
Am I being selfish for choosing not to stay?
Considering the effects of broken homes on children, what should I do?
Should I stay?
Will we eventually learn to understand each other?
We are just moving in circles, with no progress. From the outside, people think we are the perfect couple. “You look so good together,” they say. “You have cute boys.” But deep down, I am slipping away.
Is it wrong to want more out of life and for myself?
Please, I really need advice from older people who are married. We will be seven years this March, and I swear it’s not getting better—it’s getting worse. The same aŕgùments, the same issues, over and over again. Instead of bringing us together, they keep creating bigger gaps.
Am I searching for what doesn’t exist?
Nobody is perfect, yes, but not matching my energy on any level is another form of toŕtur£. I’ve shrunk myself so much just to avoid bruising his ego. I love writing. I took content-writing classes and started sharing my daily struggles with the kids, even without photos or videos, because he’s strongly against exposing them on social media. Still, he is against it. I feel like I’m just pretending—especially around him. And this is even the least of our probl£ms.
We have a lot of issues. I know no marriage is perfect, but I am mentally, psychologically, and emotionally exhausted. I’ll be 34 next month, and I’m working too. My family isn’t helping, but I know they will eventually accept my decision. Still, I don’t want to make mistakes. I don’t want regrets.
Please, someone should talk to me because I am losing it.

12/01/2026

When I was still married, I was involved in an affair with a colleague from my workplace. He was actually my junior at work, and I earned far more than he did, but at the time, I genuinely believed I was in love. I ignored the power dynamics, the risks, and the obvious red flags.

As time went on, he started becoming uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping with a married woman. Ironically, I was the one who was fine with it. He would talk about guilt, conscience, and how it disturbed him mentally. Eventually, he told me that if I truly wanted us to be together, I would have to leave my husband.

He promised that once I did, he would make our relationship official and marry me.

That promise changed everything.

From that point, I began to intentionally frustrate my husband. I wanted out of the marriage, but I wanted it to look like it was his decision, not mine. I pushed and pushed until he could no longer take it.

Eventually, the marriage ended, and I became a single lady.

Naturally, I assumed things would now be easier between me and my colleague. We continued sleeping together, and interestingly, his guilt completely disappeared.

But when I reminded him of his promise to marry me, his attitude changed. He told me he was comfortable being intimate with me but terrified of making me his wife.

According to him, anytime he imagined marriage with me, a voice in his head would say, “If she could leave her husband for you, she can also leave you for another man.”

That was when it hit me.

He never planned to marry me. Not then. Not ever.

I have stopped sleeping with him. It hurts deeply, but I accept full responsibility for everything that happened.

Looking back, I believe he saw me as someone of high value in the office and simply used me for access and advantage.

I gave him everything, emotionally and professionally. I constantly recommended him to people at the top, and he benefited immensely from my words.

Now, here is the situation. Every opportunity, promotion, and benefit he is enjoying in the organization today is built on the positive image I created for him.

My superiors see him as a good man, even though I know he is manipulative, dishonest, and someone who does not keep his promises.

How do I expose the truth without exposing myself? I cannot tell them what truly happened between us.

What is the wisest way to handle this?

Please, I need advice.

11/01/2026

My father had suspected for a long time that my mother was seeing another man because of rumors he heard from neighbors. But each time the suspicion surfaced, she denied it fiercely. She cried, she swore, she accused him of listening to neighbors who thrived on gossip. And because my father loved her, because he wanted peace more than truth, he chose to believe her.

But the neighbors kept talking. They said strange men came to the house when my father was away at work. They said they heard laughter at odd hours, smelled unfamiliar perfumes, saw cars they did not recognize. My father brushed it aside whenever it reached his ears. He told himself people liked to destroy happy homes. What he didn’t know was that I had begun to see it too.

I was still a child, but I was not blind. I noticed the way my mother dressed differently when my father wasn’t around, the way she locked the bedroom door during the day, the way she suddenly became irritated whenever I asked simple questions. Men I had never met sat in our living room, smiling at me as if they belonged there. Sometimes, I heard whispers behind closed doors. Sometimes, I saw shadows move across the walls. Each sight settled heavily in my chest, filling me with a confusion I didn’t have words for.

One afternoon, I gathered the courage to confront her. My hands were shaking as I asked why men came to the house when my father was not home. I expected an explanation, maybe even reassurance. Instead, her face hardened. She raised her voice, sharp and unforgiving, and told me to keep quiet. She said I was only a child, that I knew nothing, that I had no right to question her. Her an"ger was so sudden and vio"lent that it stunned me into silence. In that moment, something inside me broke. I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue. I simply withdrew.

From that day, I stopped seeing her as my mother. I avoided her presence and rejected her touch. The love I once had for her curdled into something dark and bitter. In my young mind, stripped of innocence too early, I began to see her not as a protector but as a disgrace. I carried that ha"tred quietly, alone, while my father continued to leave for work every morning, unaware of how rotten the walls of his home had become.

The day everything fell apart, my father came home early. He found me sitting in the living room, unusually still, staring into nothing. He asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t speak. Words failed me. Instead, I looked toward the bedroom door, my eyes heavy with sa"dness. He followed my gaze, his steps slow, as if his body already sensed what his mind was not yet ready to accept.

When he opened the bedroom door, time seemed to freeze. My mother screamed. A young man jumped up in panic, grabbing his clothes and running past my father without a word. My father stood there, frozen, his face drained of color, his hands trembling at his sides. The truth he had denied for so long stood nak"ed before him.

“So it’s true?” he asked quietly. “You said it was all a lie.”

I looked at my mother in disgust! I expected her to kneel, cry and beg My father but she didn't!

She did not apologize. She did not cry. She did not even look asha"med. Instead, she stood her ground and unleashed a storm of ins"ults. She told him he couldn’t satisfy a woman, that he was broke and ambitionless, that she was too beautiful to keep managing with a man like him. Her words were cru"el, and deliberate, and meant to wou"nd. She told him not to bother calling elders or seeking reconciliation. She was done!

She began to pack her things immediately, throwing clothes into bags with reckless urgency. I stood at the doorway, my chest burning with years of suppressed pai"n, and told her to go. I said she had never been a good mother anyway.

I just stood there still watching, because the mother I loved was gone. All that was left was a stranger I would never forgive.

FAMILIAR BETRAYAL EPISODE 1

TO BE CONTINUED!...
Written by Esther's stories f0ll0w for more insightful stories.

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