But part of me does feel guilty for what I did—specifically because it’s not something I should have done in the presence of my mother—so I just accept what she’s doing and go along with it.

“Thanks, Mom. Sorry I choked.”

“It’s fine, Lily. I need to go, I have to run to the insurance office. We have a meeting about your father’s policies. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“I will,” I tell her. “Love you, Mom.”

I end the call and toss the phone across the couch. I open the shoebox on my lap and pull out the contents. On the very top is a small wooden, hollow heart. I run my fingers over it and remember the night I was given this heart. As soon as the memory begins to sink in, I set it aside. Nostalgia is a funny thing.

I move a few old letters and newspaper clippings aside. Beneath all of it, I find what I was hoping was inside these boxes. And also sort of hoping wasn’t.

My Ellen Diaries.

I run my hands over them. There are three of them in this box, but I’d say there are probably eight or nine total. I haven’t read any of these since the last time I wrote in them.

I refused to admit that I kept a diary when I was younger because that was so cliché. Instead, I convinced myself that what I was doing was cool, because it wasn’t technically a diary. I addressed each of my entries to Ellen DeGeneres, because I began watching her show the first day it aired in 2003 when I was just a little girl. I watched it every day after school and was convinced Ellen would love me if she got to know me. I wrote letters to her regularly until I turned sixteen, but I wrote them like one would write entries in a diary. Of course I knew the last thing Ellen DeGeneres probably wanted was a random girl’s journal entries. Luckily, I never actually sent any in. But I still liked addressing all the entries to her, so I continued to do that until I stopped writing in them altogether.

I open another shoebox and find more of them. I sort through them until I grab the one from when I was fifteen years old. I flip it open, searching for the day I met Atlas. There wasn’t much that happened in my life worth writing about before he entered it, but somehow I filled six journals full before he ever came into the picture.

I swore I’d never read these again, but with the passing of my father, I’ve been thinking about my childhood a lot. Maybe if I read through these journals I’ll somehow find a little strength for forgiveness. Although I fear I’m running the risk of building up even more resentment.

I lie back on the couch and I begin reading.

Dear Ellen,

Before I tell you what happened today, I have a really good idea for a new segment on your show. It’s called, “Ellen at home.”