My hands go limp in my lap. “Oh, well, okay.” I bite my lip, can see the sad squint of my father’s eyes when he looked at me, the grip of his hands around my journal. “He shouldn’t have read it,” I say. “But I know why he did.”

“And why was that?”

“He was worried about me.” I look down. “I’d been having dreams about becoming just like her.”

“Like your mother?”

I shoot her a look. “Of course. But I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted to be a mother until I saw those two pink lines. I was scared because nothing about it was ideal. No father to help, about to start my first job out of college. Of course I was having nightmares, you know?”

She nods. “But your dad was worried?”

I fiddle with the pages of my notebook because I don’t need my notes for this moment. It’s branded in my head. And surely I’ve spoken of this with Kate. Probably a dozen times.

She seems to anticipate my question. “This is something you are still working through, Claire. But, if it helps, each time you seem to gain perspective.”

I nod and write that bit down because it does help to hear that, even if I’m not sure how it affects me when I can’t remember it, but knowing that in this moment, it feels good to talk about it, nice to have someone listen even if it doesn’t change the past.

“Why did he read your journal?”

I sigh. “I’d told him the baby’s dad was this egocentric grad student who didn’t want to tie his boat to a girl from Whittier.”

“But he was worried,” Kate says.

“Yes, very. I can’t blame him. I was twenty-six and about to have a baby on my own. It was scary.” The pain from that night is vivid and bright. I’d woken up with a headache, and it didn’t matter anymore what he’d read in my journal because the pain was so bad I couldn’t see. I’d fumbled for the phone. He was there in minutes. “He picked me up and carried me to his car.” I look at her with my hands spread out on either side of me. “Can you even picture that? I’m six foot and I was nearly nine months pregnant. It would have been like picking up a small truck.” I remember lying across the back seat, the tunnel lights flying by, and thinking Dad was driving too fast and it was too late to be in the tunnel and—“Nothing.”

Kate leans forward. “What’s that?”

“I don’t remember what happened after that, except what everyone has told me. But I do remember one thought.”

Kate nods and I deflate because she’s heard this, of course, probably more times than she can count.