I stare down at the high schooler who just won her track meet.
Covering my face with my hands, I choke out a silent sob.
I don’t understand.If she was always there, then why wasn’t shethere?
I tuck the pink ribbon between the pages, marking my spot, and drop my head against the back of the chair. Somewhere along the way, I drift into a restless sleep.
The morning sun blasting through the window feels like a personal attack. My head aches, and my face feels puffy. In a moment of clarity, I shoot Viv a text telling her I don’t feel well and could use a few hours of rest. She assures me they’ve got the office covered.
I drag myself to my bedroom, pulling the shades closed and burying myself under the covers, content to wallow in my grief and tears.
It’s well after lunchtime when I feel alive enough to crawl out of my bed and shower.
The contents of the journal fumble around in my head, snippets from each note replaying again and again, until my temples ache.
Or maybe it’s because I need coffee.
I should call Pop, but I’m a coward, so I text him instead.
Me: I’m sorry for how I acted last night.
His reply appears almost instantly, as if he’s waiting on the other end for me to open communication.
Pop: It’s okay, kiddo. I’m sorry too.
The bubbles start and stop, start and stop, so I put him out of his misery.
Me: I started reading Mom’s journal…
I sigh, rubbing my temples.
The phone vibrates in my hand with the incoming text.
Pop: I’m here, Livie, whenever you’re ready. No more secrets, I promise.
I make some coffee and settle in on the couch.
“Okay,” I pep talk myself, opening the cover and flipping to the ribbon-marked page where I left off. “Here goes.”
Almost everything I hoped she’d see, that I wished she’d know about me, she did.
Her journal is full of pictures. Notes of encouragement,memories of times she thought about me, wondered about me, or saw me from a distance. She attended my high school graduation, looking on from a distant part of the field, and said she was so proud of my valedictorian speech. I’m shocked to see a Polaroid from my college graduation too. The photo timed perfectly to catch me grabbing my diploma.
I slam the journal shut, throwing it across my apartment. The anger and betrayal build and grow hotter until it’s an inferno inside my chest.
Howcouldshe? All that time. How could she be there for all of that and never…?
I stand. My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms. I pace back and forth, burning a hole in the area rug on my floor trying to make sense of it all.
I snag my phone and text Pop.
Me: I’m coming over.
I need answers.
Fifty-Five
SHE WAS THERE, POP
