“You don’t like it, Mom?” Alicia asks, worried.
“Come on, Buttercup. You know Mom cries watching sad puppy videos,” Ethan teases, looping an arm around his sister. “We nailed it.”
“You did,” I whisper. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift than having you two as my children.”
We hug again, and then they tug me down the stairs toward the kitchen, where breakfast waits.
I eat with a smile the whole time, not caring that the pancakes are a little burnt, or that they probably forgot the salt in the scrambled eggs, or that this might just be the strongest coffee I’ve ever tasted.
None of that matters. All that matters is the gesture.
And seeing them right here in front of me, smiling, making plans for how we’ll spend the rest of the day together.
“Oh— it’s not from us, Mom.”
Ethan’s voice pulls me back to the present.
I look at the black box tied with a blue ribbon and suddenly it feels different beneath my gaze.
My heart stutters, a faint tremor running through me as possibilities crowd my mind.
You’ll never have to hear about our family ever again.
Was she lying? Is this box another fragment of my father’s past?
“You okay, Mom? You look... kind of weird all of a sudden.” Ethan’s voice comes closer, laced with concern.
I force a smile and meet his eyes. “Of course. I just got lost in thought for a second, that’s all.”
“Do you want me to open it for you?” he asks gently.
Clever, as always. Of course he noticed the shift. How my expression faltered the moment I realized the box wasn’t from him and Alicia.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll take it upstairs and open it later. If Mark gets here before I’m done, tell him I won’t be long.”
I smile again and kiss his cheek before picking up the box, careful not to let him see my hands shake.
It’s heavier than I expected. Each step up the stairs feels like walking toward something I’m not ready to face, and by the time I reach the top, my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
In my bedroom, I set the box down on the desk.
That’s when I notice an envelope tucked beneath the blue ribbon tied along the side. I pull it free, but I don’t open it yet. I’m more afraid of the words it might hold than whatever waits inside the box itself.
I untie the ribbon, my hands trembling. I draw in a slow breath and lift the lid.
For a moment, I just stare, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing... and still dreading what might be hidden inside the wooden box resting within. I lift it gently and place it beside the gift box. When I open it, there’s a leather-bound notebook inside.
I pick it up with trembling fingers and realize it’s a diary. My heart beats faster, but when I flip it open, relief washes over me.
Every page is blank.
I glance back into the box and find a slim case nestled inside. Opening it, I discover an elegant pen, fine-tipped, with silver letters engraved across the barrel:Cecily Sterling.
I stare at my name, tracing the letters with my thumb. And then, finally, I gather enough courage to open the envelope.
I remember seeing on your blog bio that February 21st is your birthday. I also remember reading in a few of your early posts that journaling has always been a part of who you are. Something that gives you space to breathe and take everything in. There weren’t any recent mentions, so I don’t know if that’s still true. But I found this in an antique shop in Milan, and it made me think of you.
Happy birthday, Cecily. May you and your family receive all the blessings you deserve.
