My eyes burn but I can’t sleep. The orange journal, among other things, is burning a hole in my mind.There’s no chance I’m falling asleep.
The adrenaline of the moment has worn off. My rational side has returned to me, and in the place of anger, lives guilt—guilt for being mad at Pop without taking the time to understand his side of the story, guilt for leaving the way I did. I can’t call him now to apologize. Not at this hour.
With a heavy sigh, I flip the covers off, eliciting a groan from Sunny, who’s now buried under blankets. I make my way back into the living room. It’s still and dark outside. Late enough that even the lights in the surrounding buildings are off. The quiet few hours when it feels like the entire city is asleep.
The journal is on the table where I left it. Eyeing it wearily, I chew the side of my lip.
I grab the blanket, wrapping it around me like a shield, turn on the lamp, and pick up the journal. With a fortifying breath, I open it again.
My little sunshine,
I messed up, honey. I wish I didn’t, but I did, and I’m afraid I don’t know how to fix it.
I read the line again and again. It’s the only one on the page. I can only assume she means she messed up because she left. But if she knew she had messed up, why didn’t she come back? I needed very little growing up. I’d have been content just to have her. We could have fixed whatever needed to be fixed.
My former shock at seeing her handwriting and reading her words has dissipated. In its place is unbridled curiosity. I flipped to the next page, addressed the same way as the one prior.
Each note in the journal begins the same; each note is a snapshot in time. She saw me in the schoolyard, someone yelled the name Olivia on the street, and she wondered if it was me.
On some pages, the handwriting is a scribbled mess, barely legible and confusing to read. On these pages, her thoughts are unclear and rushed, claiming “it was all his fault.” She never says who he is, though. Other pages are more coherent, each thought written as if clear-eyed and remorseful. Every note showed me that all my life, she was nearby, and forever out of reach.
My little sunshine,
I suppose you’re not so little anymore. When you got off the bus that day at Gram’s, I couldn’t?—
The ink on the page has smeared, as if it got wet before it had time to set. A space lingers there between the blurred ink and a fresh new sentence, the thought left unfinished.
I remember this day. She was in the driveway, talking with Gram. What I remembered of her was not what I saw that day. Beautiful blonde hair that I loved to touch was now stringy, oily, and flat. Her creamy skin was now dull and colorless, her oncesparkling eyes, lifeless. She was skinnier than I remembered, too. I recognized her, though. I think I’d always recognize her.
She looked at me as I walked off the bus. Viv was at my side, and I vaguely remember her asking, “Who’s that?” Mom stared at me, her expression unreadable. The hope that bloomed in my chest in that moment was unlike anything I’d experienced before.
“Mom,” I whispered. It had been three years since I’d last seen her.
And then she climbed into her car and drove off. Peeled out of the driveway at a speed that was way too fast, and just like that, my excitement popped like a fragile bubble. It was like someone taking your favorite toy and ripping it beyond repair. Devastating.
I was mad at myself for wanting her to stay after she’d left me the first time. Mad that I hoped she’d turn around and come back even after she left me the second time. Who wants someone like that in their life? Someone who can discard you so quickly.
Me. I did.
I wanted my mom. I wanted to be wanted.
I remember waiting in the driveway that day. Waiting to see if she’d change her mind and come back.
She didn’t.
That was the day I decided I’d prove my worth. I’d work harder, do better, and prove to her I could be someone she wanted to come back for. Someone she wanted to love.
I swipe a tear at the memory and finish reading what she wrote.
Gram wouldn’t let me stay and see you, and I understand now that it was for the best. I didn’t then, but I do now. You looked beautiful, honey,so big. So grown up.
Gram?
The next page is a series of nonsensical ramblings about getting better, being sorry, wanting to be stronger, and how it was never really love. It makes little sense. It’s a stark contrast to the coherent elegance of the pages where she documents memories she had or moments when she saw me from afar.
I continue through the pages, stopping when a picture cut from the local newspaper snags my attention. My eyes catch on the single line scrawled along the bottom of the page under the clipping.
I’m so proud of you!
