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She remembers a house where laughter could turn to screaming without warning, where a child learned to read the temperature of a room by the sound of a sigh. Her father, long before he was Michael Landon, was a frightened boy who slept lightly, waiting for the next crash, the next accusation, the next emotional storm he couldn’t control. Those scars, she says, never disappeared; they simply changed shape, hiding behind jokes, work, and that famously reassuring smile the world thought it knew so well.
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