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Its chapters are not bound in leather or paper, but in the very fabric of your being in the way you flinch at a raised voice, in the deep hunger for approval that drives you to exhaustion, in the familiar ache of loneliness that visits you even in a crowded room. This story was passed to you quietly, not through words, but through glances, through silence, through unmet needs and unspoken expectations. It is the story of your family, the karmic blueprint of belonging and wounding that you inherited the moment you took your first breath. This book is about that inheritance. It is not, however, a book about blame. To point fingers at the architects of our past our mothers and fathers is to misunderstand the profound and often painful nature of human legacy. They, too, were children once, carrying stories they did not write, bound by wounds they did not choose.

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