Miriam’s breath caught. So Ruth wasn’t a lover, nor another daughter. She was his mother. Her hands shook as she turned the page, the paper crackling under her fingers. The next entry bled darker, the ink carved in with such force it nearly tore through. Mom says she only wanted the best for me. But what she wanted was obedience.
She crushed every choice before it could breathe. Even now, when I close my eyes, I hear her voice correcting me, mocking me. I left her house, but I never escaped her grip. Miriam swallowed hard and flipped further. The entries grew more fragmented, each one dripping with resentment. She makes her silence into a weapon.