I had a plan.A perfect little plan where I would drink my coffee, eat, and start opening these boxes and sort through them so fast that by the end of the day I would've sorted through at least three of them.
My plan crashed and burned the moment I sat down next to them and saw my mother's handwriting.
Journals.
One simple word crashed into me as if she said it out loud, the ghost of her whisper picking at the wound in my chest. Some wounds could heal miraculously fast, closing up almost immediately, with just a little scab left behind until they turned into a scar. This wound, however, wasn't closing.
And I wanted it to.
I needed it to close, to scab, to leave just a scar behind. My therapist said that these things took time. These emotions couldn't be resolved overnight, but I wished there was a way to erase the memories just so I could live again. So I could move on.
I have never felt as weak as I was feeling now, just sitting here, staring at the brown box filled with my mom's things. But I couldn't let my broken mind and my broken heart dictate how I lived my life anymore. I needed something to hold on to, and ifthat something was sorting through their things, through these memories no matter how painful they were, then so be it.
For the first time since their death, I let a different emotion wash over me. I let my anger take over, because being angry was better than being fucking sad and barely existing. Being angry let me put my hands on top of the box, ignoring the coldness seeping through the carton.
My family wouldn't want me to live like this. They wouldn't want me to stop living just because they weren't here anymore. They would want me to fight. They would want me to push through this heaviness in my chest and continue fighting through life like I used to.
Since I was a small child, my mom encouraged me to fight for myself. To do everything my heart desired. To play sports, to run, to live my life to the fullest. She would be devastated if she could see me now, sitting on this cold floor, scared to open the box that probably contained only her journals and the ramblings from when she was a girl. She would want me to open the windows in the house, to let the fresh air in and to remove the darkness sitting in the corners.
She would want me to light up some sage and cleanse the house like she used to. Daniela Vale Harley was a force to be reckoned with, and while I hated the fact that we disagreed more than we agreed, she taught me some valuable lessons about life and I would forever be grateful.
Taking the utility knife from the floor, I cut through the tape holding the lid closed, and let it all open. The musky smell of old books infiltrated through my nostrils, together with an unmistakable scent of the sage she always used on everything, and I knew that no matter what, I would never forget that scent. I would never forget our mornings together and the stories she told me.
The stories of ancient Greece, the Gods and the heroes that lived a long time ago. I would never forget the love stories, and, most of all, I would never forget the ones that have taught me that courage sometimes comes even when you think there is nothing left to fight for.
My hands trembled as I sat on my knees and peered inside, opening the lid wider to see the neatly stacked journals inside. She was meticulous about her journaling, continuing even as she got older, encouraging Thalia and me to do the same. I didn't listen, of course, but maybe I should have. Thalia kept her diary, that much I knew, but it was nothing like what my mom did.
She never told me the name of the city she was originally from, and all I knew was that her family originated from the northwest area of the country and that she kept everything since she was a child in these journals. For the first time I felt like maybe this was the way forward.
I never quite understood my mother and her need for both Thalia and me to know how to fight, how to defend ourselves, and how to attack if we ever needed to. I always thought something must have happened to her when she was younger. Something she didn't want to talk about. But maybe with these journals I would finally be able to understand the woman she was before she became our mother.
I grabbed three journals from the box and pulled them out, setting them all down on the floor next to me. And then I pulled out the lone papers with her scribbling on them, until the box I was dreading didn't seem so scary at all and was just an empty space that held far too much power over me.
Power it didn't need to have.
My eyes zeroed in on the front of the journal right in front of me, seeing the year etched onto it—1996. One year before I was born.
A curiosity I feared had ceased to exist somewhere along the way, and now it had suddenly illuminated in me, and I wanted to know, no matter how disturbing it might be to read about my mom when she was younger than I am now.
I sat down cross-legged and pulled the journal onto my lap, wiping away the dust that had gathered on top of it, and opened to the middle.
September 7th, 1996
I had that same dream last night.
Mother said it was normal for me to start having unexplainable dreams, but she didn't know the truth. She couldn't know the truth because I haven't told anyone but Atos abouther. About our little secret. About our little angel.
Alyana suspects, I'm sure of it, but she cannot prove it and I'm too scared to tell her.
She wasn't happy about Atos and me, but she said that destiny sometimes cannot be stopped and she didn't try to talk me out of being with him. But this… This is huge. This secret I am carrying is bigger than any of us. Bigger than this island, and if my dreams are true, we aren't safe here.
None of us are safe here, least of all our little angel.
Atos thought I was wrong and that maybe it was a boy, but I know it's a girl. I know in my soul that we're going to have a girl, and even though I'm happy, I'm also scared for her, because he would want her gone. They would all want her gone because Atos and I should never have gotten together. But worst of all, we never should have created a life together.
It should have been impossible, with him being him and me being, well, me.
And now with the three sisters gathering again because of what they saw, I am more and more sure that our home is no longer the place we can stay at.
