Mira puts it on the kitchen table on a Saturday morning without preamble.
Just sets it down in front of my coffee cup, an old leather journal with the worn corners of something that has been handled many times over many years. She sits across from me and wraps her hands around her own mug and waits.
I look at the journal.
“He’d want you to have it,” she says. “He always intended for you to have it.”
“You’ve had it this whole time.”
“Yes.”
I don’t say anything about the eighteen years. I’m trying so hard to not waste my anger on things I do not fully understand but Mira is making this difficult for me.
I pick up the journal.
The leather is warm from the kitchen light. The cover is blank — no name, no title, nothing on the outside. He was careful. He was careful about everything the
