Underneath the bed lay a dusty cardboard box, taped shut and seemingly forgotten. My hands shook as I pulled it out, dust motes swirling in the dim room like tiny spirits. The box was heavier than I expected, and my heart pounded as I set it on the floor and gingerly peeled away the tape.
Inside, I found a collection of notebooks, journals, and scraps of paper. Each one was filled with my daughter’s handwriting. I picked up the first notebook—it was a deep blue, her favorite color—and opened it. Tears blurred my vision as I read the first entry, dated almost a year before her death.
“Dear Mom, I know you might find this one day. I hope you do. There’s so much I wish I could say, but I’m afraid and don’t know how.”
