She didn’t yell. That’s the worst part. She just sat on the edge of my bed, holding the paper like it might break, and asked: “Is this why you’ve been crying in the shower?”
Dear Diary,
Here’s a draft for Emily’s Diary – Part 22 : emily's diary part 22
I thought I had hidden it well — inside the old dictionary, between “fear” and “feather.” But she’s been cleaning my room more often lately. I should have noticed.
Mom found the letter. The one from him.
I almost didn’t write tonight. My hands are shaking, but not from cold. From something I can’t name yet.
But diary, that’s the thing. I don’t know if I’m being brave. Or if I’m just too tired to pretend anymore. She didn’t yell
But maybe the real choice isn’t him or not him. Maybe it’s about learning to sit with the silence. To let it teach me something.