Chapter Two Hundred Ninety-One: The Hidden Diary
Lina was eighteen years old when she published her first book.
It was a collection of stories about her family—the first Lina, the coma, the trial, the rebuilding. The constellation of stars. She had been writing for years, filling notebook after notebook with stories about the people who had come before her.
Now her book was finished. Now it was out in the world.
She sat in the garden, a copy of the book in her hands, tears streaming down her face.
Her grandmother, the youngest Grace, found her there.
"What's wrong?" the youngest Grace asked, sitting beside her.
Lina shook her head. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's right."
The youngest Grace looked at the book. "You did it."
Lina nodded. "I did it."
The youngest Grace put her arm around her. "I'm proud of you."
Lina leaned into her. "Thank you for being there. For all of it."
The youngest Grace kissed her forehead.
"I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else," she said.
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The book became a bestseller.
Readers wrote letters, telling Lina how her family's story had helped them, how it had given them hope, how it had shown them that survival was possible.
Lina read every letter.
She answered some of them, the ones that touched her heart the most. She wrote back to a young woman who had lost her memory in a car accident. She wrote back to a man who was estranged from his family. She wrote back to a teenager who felt like she didn't belong anywhere.
She told them her family's story. She told them her own story. She told them that it was never too late to find hope.
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One afternoon, Lina received a letter from a young woman.
Dear Lina,
I read your book. I'm in a dark place right now. I don't know if I can survive.
But your family's story gave me hope. If your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother could survive, maybe I can too.
Thank you.
—A reader
Lina read the letter twice.
Then she wrote back.
Dear Reader,
You can survive. I know it doesn't feel like it right now. But you can.
One day at a time. That's how my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother did it. That's how you'll do it too.
You are not alone.
—Lina
She mailed the letter.
She never received a reply.
But she did not need one.
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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 diary 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-great-great-great-grandmother's, sharp and precise.
Lina's hands began to shake.
She carried the diary downstairs and sat down on the couch. She opened it to the first page.
January 1, 1980
I'm starting this diary 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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The diary 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-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 diary. She told them about her great-great-great-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 her grandmother, the youngest Grace, stood up. She was seventy-five now, still sharp, still loving, still present.
"She was scared," the youngest Grace said. "She was lost. She was broken. But she survived."
Lina nodded. "She did."
The youngest Grace walked to her granddaughter 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 diary. 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 great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was listening.
She thought about the diary, finally found. Finally understood.
She was not afraid.
Not anymore.
Her ancestor 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 Ninety-One