I wake up and reach for my journal, but it’s not there. My face is dry and hot, eyes gritty, and my whole body hurts. I sit up, panicked, searching the room for something to help me understand the sob lodged in my chest. My journal is half-open on the floor and I breathe out, relieved. It must have fallen during the night. I pick it up, hoping it will explain this prickling sensation that makes my hands shake when I press them into my stomach. Already I see a line in my journal that resonates somewhere deep inside me. You lost the baby. I close the journal, squeeze my eyes shut. I remember this. Don’t I? In the tunnel, when the headache was so bad I couldn’t see, even then I knew I was going to lose her. When I open my eyes, I see a sticky note on the cover of the journal. My heart beats painfully because the writing is mine but jagged, with lines pressed deep into the paper. And the words make my eyes blur. Mirabelle lived. Mirabelle lived. The journal falls from my hands, and when I look up, I see my whiteboard is filled with my mother’s handwriting.

Your father (who died last year) wanted us to all be together. He was tired of waiting for you to be ready. I live here and I’m sober. Tate and his daughter, Maree, live here too. Maree is your daughter, Claire. She is Mirabelle and Mirabelle lived but you couldn’t remember.

It’s so much information at once. My father is dead. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around my shins, and rock, trying to connect the dots, resisting a strong desire to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. My mother is sober. Tate lives here. And my daughter, Tate’s daughter, Mirabelle, is alive. A fluttering deep inside me gives rise to a surge of hope. My heart aches for it to be true at the same time that I want to pick up the eraser and wipe the board clean. She lived?

There’s a photo album beside your bed. Look at the pictures and come out when you’re ready. You can do this, Claire. You’re stronger than you know. Love, Mom