I entered my room, stood for a brief moment, and basked in my room’s impeccability. I loved entering my room knowing I would not be disturbed and that my books were always waiting to take me in an escape from life during times when I needed to shut the world out and enter into new ones. I dropped the armful of books onto my bed and began to sort through my stack of library books from my research materials. While doing this, I came across a slim volume I didn't recognise with a plain, soft black cover nestled between two large ones looking greatly out of place. I couldn’t for the life of me, remember checking it out. It’s cracked spine and curled pages would not have looked appealing enough ...view middle of the document...
I rolled of my bed and carried the journal to the lamplight in order to get a better look. An audible gasp escaped me as I finally realized whose journal it belonged to. I flipped the cover open again and read the name one more time.
Andrea Austen, my mother.
Running my fingers over the weathered binding of the little black journal, I couldn't help but tremble slightly as I stared at it. How did this journal end up with the books I brought home? I had no idea how it got in my possession. I flipped the pages to the first entry.
August 1st, 1991
Dear Journal, I went to the doctor today and found out the most distressing news. I can’t talk about it now, but I’m so heartbroken. I don't know how I’m going to tell Will… I have to go, Journal.
I turned the pages to the next entry, my heart pounding as I tried to envision what my mother could be talking about. Reminding myself of how much I’d hate anyone to read my diary, I was about to resist the temptation and close the book, when I realized that I was given an opportunity to know about my mother before I was born. And with a twinge of guilt, I read on.
August 6th, 1991
Dear Journal, I told Will about it today. He’s being incredibly supportive, but he insists we notify everyone before it gets worse. I told him I wasn’t ready, but he isn’t going to let me deal with this alone. I suppose I should be thankful, but, to be honest, Journal, I’m terrified… Got to go. Will is home.
August 14th, 1991
Dear Journal, today was really difficult. I told Mom, Dad, Grandma Moses and Will’s mother and father and grandparents… Everyone is acting so fragile around me now. They keep asking how I’m feeling, if I’m okay and if I need anything… This is why I didn’t want to say anything, Journal. Cancer...