Page 81 of Shattered

The box was heavier than I expected. I sat on Mom’s bed and opened it carefully.

Jewelry. Most of it costume. A few real pieces. Rings and necklaces and earrings I remembered her wearing. Things that smelled like her perfume and looked like her hands.

At the bottom, underneath everything else, was an envelope.

Cream colored. My name written on the front in Mom’s handwriting.

“What is it?” Daniel asked.

“I don’t know.”

My hands were shaking so hard I almost tore it opening it. Inside was a journal.

Leather-bound, worn, filled with Mom’s handwriting.

“She kept a journal,” Maria said softly. “To help remember. To fight the disease.”

I opened to the first page.

If I’m reading this, I’m already forgetting. So here’s what I need to remember: I’m Elena Santoro. I have three children—Daniel, Delia. And Axel. A husband named Miguel who I love more than life.

My vision went blurry.

I flipped through pages. The early entries were clear. Her daily observations, memories she was afraid would disappear. Recipes. Stories about her childhood.

Then the entries became fragmented—shorter, more desperate.

I forgot Daniel’s birthday. Remembered at midnight. Called him crying.

I made Miguel’s favorite dinner. He’s been dead for three years. I forgot.

Delia came to visit. My daughter. I knew her name. Small victories.

Each entry was a window into Mom’s mind as it fractured. As she fought to stay herself while she lost piece by piece.

Daniel sat beside me. He read over my shoulder. We didn’t speak. Just read and cried on Mom’s bed while Maria quietly continued packing.

“I’ll get you water,” Daniel said. He walked away, but a part of me knew he was looking for somewhere private to break down.

I kept reading mom’s words.

Midway through the journal, an entry stopped me completely.

Found letters today. In Axel’s old room. I was rearranging it. The letters tucked behind the loose board in his closet.

Love letters. To Delia. From Axel. Years’ worth. Starting when he was fourteen.

No. That couldn’t be right.

I read them. I shouldn’t have but I did. Love that was patient, terrified, and genuine. He wrote about watching her paint. About how she refused to let him hide. About loving her since he was fourteen and not knowing what to do with it.

I don’t know what to do with this. Axel barely comes home anymore. I understand why now. Delia is with Jake. I don’t like Jake but she seems happy.

Next page.

Tell Delia about the letters. Soon. Before I forget. She needs to know Axel loved her first. Loved her longest.

My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the journal.