By the time I finished the first notebook, I was sobbing. My heart ached with a guilt so profound it was almost physical. How had I missed this? How had I not seen the signs of her suffering?

Among the notebooks, there was also a small, ornate box. Inside, I found a collection of photographs and trinkets—small mementos she had collected over the years. There were ticket stubs from family outings, a dried flower from our garden, a friendship bracelet, and other tokens that held special meaning for her.

And then, at the bottom of the box, I found a letter addressed to me and my husband. With trembling hands, I opened it.