Except everything inside it was a bomb waiting to go off.
I stared at it, my hands flat on the table on either side of it, like I was trying to keep it contained. Keep it from exploding and taking me with it.
What else was in there? What other secrets had Christina kept? What other choices had she made that I’d have to explain to Grace, to myself, to anyone who asked?
And why the fuck had she written it all down in the first place?
That was the question that kept circling back. Why document it? Why leave a record of everything she’d done, every compromise she’d made, every line she’d crossed?
Was it a confession? Justification? A way to make sense of her own choices?
Or was it insurance? A way to make sure someone knew the truth, even if she couldn’t tell it herself?
I didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Not until I finished reading.
But sitting here, staring at that journal, I wasn’t sure I had the strength.
Footsteps approached, and I looked up to see Trudy coming toward me with a mug of black coffee and a plate with a bear claw. She set them down in front of me without a word, her expression soft but unreadable.
“I’m right across the room,” she said quietly. “If you need me.”
Then she walked away, leaving me alone with the journal and my thoughts.
I watched her go, watched her move behind the counter and start helping another customer. She didn’t look back. Didn’t hover. Just gave me space to do what I needed to do.
And somehow, that made it easier.
I picked up the coffee, took a long drink, then set it down. The bear claw sat untouched on the plate. My appetite had disappeared the moment I’d pulled the journal out of my pocket.
This was it. No more excuses. No more delays.
I needed to know what else Christina had hidden. Needed to understand the full scope of what she’d done, what she’d sacrificed, what she’d become in the name of protecting our daughter.
And I needed to know if I could live with it.
If Grace could live with it.
If any of us could move forward without the weight of these secrets crushing us.
I reached for the journal, my fingers brushing the worn leather cover.
How many more pages? How many more entries? How many more truths were waiting in this leather-bound journal for me to uncover?
The answer wouldn’t come from staring at it. Trudy was right; I needed to finish it. I needed closure.
And then maybe, just maybe, I could finally let Christina rest.
Maybe I could finally let myself rest, too.
I opened the journal, found my place, and started to read.
WHEN FEAR WON…
I’ve spent so many years being afraid of you, Stephen. Not afraid that you would hurt me. Never that. Afraid that one day you would know the real me.
The man I loved was brave enough to face anything. Violence. Loss. Betrayal. Death. You never backed away from hard truths. You looked them in the eye and dealt with them. And I have spent half my life running from one.
Every time I put pen to paper, I tell myself this will be the entry where I finally write it all down. The entry where I stop hiding and tell you everything. But then I imagine your face. I imagine you reading these pages. I imagine your hands shaking. I imagine that look in your eyes disappearing. The one that always made me feel like maybe I wasn’t as broken as I thought I was.
