The house was filled with the warm, golden light of the fireplace and the soft, rhythmic sound of the winter wind against the glass.
Leo walked into the room, his face unusually pale, holding a small, worn leather journal in his trembling hands.
My stomach instantly dropped, recognizing the journal as the one Julian had given David all those years ago, the one we thought we had fully processed.
I asked him what he was holding, trying to keep my voice steady despite the sudden, sharp spike of anxiety in my chest.
Leo stopped in the middle of the room, looking between David and me with eyes that were wide, confused, and deeply searching.
He told us he had found the journal hidden inside a false bottom in the attic storage box while he was looking for his old winter coats.
He said he knew we had burned the original diary, but he found this secondary journal tucked inside the wooden box Julian had given us.
David set his pen down slowly, his jaw tightening as he stared at the book in his son’s hands.
He asked Leo if he had opened it, his voice carefully neutral, masking the sudden storm of emotions brewing behind his eyes.
Leo nodded slowly, his thumb tracing the cracked leather cover as he took a deep, shaky breath.
He said he had read the last three pages, the ones that were stuck together and had been missed the first time we looked.
I set my tea down, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I waited for him to continue.
Leo looked up, his voice cracking slightly as he asked us if it was true that his great-grandmother Eleanor was not who she said she was.
Part 1: My Husband Stopped His Mother, Then Asked My Mother One Question…
