My daughter, and not my daughter; a resemblance I cannot bear to face. Miriam pressed her hand to her mouth, the words blurring through her tears. All those years she had thought the change was her fault, that she had done something unforgivable at the lake.
And here was the truth, written in his own hand: he had mistaken her for a ghost, punishing her for echoes she had never chosen to carry. The unfairness of it burned through her. She wanted to throw the journal across the room, to scream at the memory of him, to demand why he hadn’t been stronger, why he hadn’t seen her instead of Ruth.