I FOUND MY DAUGHTER’S JOURNAL IN THE CUPBOARD — HER WORDS TORE ME APART
I was folding laundry when the old shoebox fell from the top shelf, scattering its contents across the floor, and that’s when I saw it — her small, tattered journal tucked beneath a stack of photos. My hands trembled as I opened it, the faint smell of lavender ink hitting me like a wave of guilt. I shouldn’t have looked, but I couldn’t stop.
The first page was dated last summer, the words scribbled in her familiar handwriting: “Mom doesn’t understand. She thinks I’m okay, but I’m not. I’m drowning.” My chest tightened as I flipped further, each entry more raw than the last. “I tried to tell her about the kids at school, but she just said, ‘Ignore it, you’re too sensitive.’” The sound of my own voice echoed in her words, and I felt sick.
Then I reached yesterday’s entry: “I don’t think she loves me. Not really. She loves the idea of me.” I dropped the journal, the sound of it hitting the tile echoing in the silent room.
I called her name, my voice cracking, “Ellie, please, we need to talk.” She stood in the doorway, her expression blank. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her tone cold.
As I started to speak, the doorbell rang.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. “The journal… I found your journal, Ellie.”
Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of fear crossing her face before she schooled it into a mask of indifference. “So?”
The doorbell rang again, a shrill demand that pierced the fragile peace. “Who is it?” I asked, my voice strained.
“Just some friends,” she mumbled, avoiding my gaze. “Can I go?”
I knew I couldn’t let her run away, not this time. “No, Ellie. We need to talk about this. About how you feel.” I gestured towards the journal, still lying open on the floor. “About why you wrote these things.”
The doorbell chimed again. “I said, it’s friends,” she snapped, her voice rising with frustration. “Can we just get this over with?”
Reluctantly, I relented. “Fine. But after they leave, we are talking.” I gestured towards the door. “Go answer it.”
Ellie walked past me, her shoulders slumped. I followed her, my heart heavy. When she opened the door, I was stunned. Standing there was a girl I vaguely recognized from school, a girl who often seemed to have a friendly smile, and a boy, taller than Ellie, whose face was obscured by a baseball cap. He seemed to be a couple of years older. They both held cardboard signs with brightly colored lettering.
Before Ellie could even greet them, the girl spoke. “Ellie, we know your mom doesn’t get it. You are beautiful, you are smart, and you are amazing and deserving of love. We all are.” She held up her sign. It read: “You are Enough.” The boy, removed his hat and held up his sign. His sign said “We Believe You”.
Ellie stared at them, tears welling in her eyes. The girl then added, “Come with us, Ellie. We can give you the support you deserve.”
Her friends looked at me, waiting for a response. I felt a cold shock of dread. I had been so caught up in my own guilt and the words in the journal that I hadn’t seen the signs. I had been so blinded by my own insecurities that I had not looked at her. I looked at Ellie. I saw the girl I loved, but also the girl I had hurt.
I knew in that moment, I had to prove myself. I had to show her she was more than my “idea” of her, more than just my daughter.
I looked at her friends. “I’m coming too” I said in a firm tone. “I’ll drive.”
As they all huddled in the car, I started driving, determined to learn, to understand, and to make amends. It wouldn’t be easy, but I had a chance, and I wasn’t going to waste it.