Chapter Two Hundred Seventy-Nine: The Hidden Journal
The discovery happened by accident, as most discoveries did in the Blackwood family.
Lina was exploring the attic again, as she often did, searching for old photographs and forgotten treasures. The attic was dusty and cluttered, filled with boxes that had not been opened in decades. She loved the attic. It felt like a museum of her family's history, a place where the past was still alive.
She found the journal hidden behind a stack of old canvases, propped against the wall in the darkest corner of the attic. It was small, leather-bound, its cover cracked and faded. The pages were yellowed with age, the handwriting familiar—her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's, sharp and precise.
Lina's hands began to shake.
She carried the journal downstairs and sat down on the couch. She opened it to the first page.
January 1, 1980
I'm starting this journal because I need to remember. I need to remember who I was before. Before the coma. Before the trial. Before everything.
My name is Lina. I am twenty-nine years old. I am married to a man named Ethan. I have two children, twins, a boy and a girl.
But I don't remember them.
I woke up from a coma three months ago. I didn't know who I was. I didn't know who to trust.
They told me I was their mother. They told me I was his wife. I didn't believe them.
But I'm starting to.
The memories are coming back. Slowly. Painfully. Like pieces of a puzzle I didn't know I was solving.
I'm writing this down so I don't forget again.
—Lina
Lina read the entry three times.
Then she turned the page.
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February 15, 1980
I remembered something today. The twins' first steps. Lily was holding onto the coffee table. Leo was crawling toward her. They both fell. They both laughed.
I cried.
Ethan held me. He said, "It's okay. You're remembering."
I hope he's right.
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March 3, 1980
I remembered the wedding. The small courthouse. The cream-colored dress. The twins throwing flower petals.
I remembered saying "I do."
I remembered meaning it.
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April 20, 1980
I found out the truth today. About my mother. About the contract. About Ryan and Chloe.
I confronted my mother. She didn't deny it. She said she did what she had to do.
I told her I never wanted to see her again.
She didn't cry.
I did.
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May 10, 1980
The trial started today. I testified. I told the truth.
Ryan looked at me with hate in his eyes. Chloe looked at me with fear.
My mother looked at me with nothing.
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June 5, 1980
The verdict came today. Guilty. All of them.
I should feel relieved. I should feel free.
But I just feel empty.
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July 12, 1980
I started painting again. Flowers. Trees. The twins.
It helps. It helps me remember.
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August 25, 1980
The twins started kindergarten today. They were so small. So scared.
I walked them to the door. I hugged them. I told them I loved them.
They said, "We love you too, Mama."
I cried.
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September 30, 1980
I've been thinking about Victoria. About the accident. About the prison.
She's been sober for a year now. She's trying to make amends.
I don't know if I can forgive her. But I'm trying.
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October 15, 1980
I met Victor today. My real father. He waited thirty years to find me.
He cried when he saw me. He said, "You look just like your mother."
I didn't know what to say. So I just hugged him.
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November 20, 1980
Thanksgiving. The whole family gathered. Victoria came. Victor came. Katherine came.
The twins ran around, laughing. Ethan held my hand.
I looked around at all the people I loved.
I felt grateful.
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December 25, 1980
Christmas. The twins woke us up at 5 AM. They were so excited.
We opened presents. We ate too much. We watched movies.
I fell asleep on the couch, Ethan's arm around me.
I felt happy.
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The journal ended there.
Lina closed the book and set it down on the coffee table.
She was crying.
Not because she was sad. Not because she was angry.
Because she finally understood.
Her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother had been scared. She had been lost. She had been broken.
But she had survived. She had healed. She had built a family.
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Lina called the family together.
She read them entries from the journal. She told them about her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's fears, her hopes, her dreams.
When she finished, the room was silent.
Then Ethan stood up. He was twenty-eight, an astronaut, carrying on the legacy of his namesake.
"She was scared," Ethan said. "She was lost. She was broken. But she survived."
Lina nodded. "She did."
Ethan walked to his mother and took her hand. "I'm proud of her."
Lina's eyes filled with tears. "So am I."
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That night, Lina sat in the garden alone.
The stars were out, scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds. The air was cool and quiet. The city hummed in the distance.
She looked up at the stars that were her ancestors.
"Grandma," she whispered. "I found your journal. I know the truth. You were scared. You were lost. You were broken. But you survived. You healed. You built this family."
The stars twinkled.
Lina smiled.
She knew her grandmother was listening.
She thought about the journal, finally found. Finally understood.
She was not afraid.
Not anymore.
Her grandmother had survived worse.
She could survive anything.
As long as she had her family.
As long as she had her constellation of stars.
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End of Chapter Two Hundred Seventy-Nine