36
Saige
I sat in the cabin by the fire with one of my tattered paperbacks in hand, but I couldn’t focus on the words. Flynn sat on his bed—our bed—against the headboard, reading his mother’s journal. I watched him more than I read the story of l**t clutched in my fingertips.
A slight furrow dented his brow and had for over an hour, his lips pressed in a thin line. Twice, he’d come to me asking for help to make out a word of his mother’s tiny scripted words.
Waiting for him to take a break, to share with me how he felt, kept my stomach cramped. Every night for four days, he’d sat and read into the evenings what I’d already told him, putting the journal down when his eyes grew tired, unaccustomed as they were to reading for hours on end like mine.
We’d returned to the homestead to find
