And beneath the stack of photos, tucked flat against the bottom of the box, was a journal bound in cracked leather. Miriam’s fingers trembled as she lifted it free. The cover was soft with wear, the pages yellowed and brittle. When she opened it, her father’s cramped handwriting sprawled across the lines, pressed so hard the ink had bled through in places.
The words at the top of the page made her stomach lurch: She decides what I will eat, what I will wear, when I may speak. She drains every room she enters. Even as a grown man, I cannot escape her voice. Mom has carved herself into me, and I don’t know how to live without her shadow pressing down.