“Look!” Rae held up a small blue leather-bound book. “It’s a diary!” She felt no qualms; she opened it to the first page. “‘September 1, 1938. Ruby Evelyn Morgade, my book.’” She turned the page and read, “‘I turn fifteen years old today and my sister sent me this journal as a gift. Bessie says to keep it hidden from Father or he’ll read it, and all my secret beliefs and deep emotions will be revealed. He doesn’t deem his wife or children should be allowed private thoughts, and he is the head of this household so he controls us all.’” Rae looked up, frowning thunderously. “I don’t like her father.”

“What a jerk,” Kellen agreed.

“Who does he think he is?”

“He was the rich newspaperman who owned the house. In those days, men did pretty much what they wanted with their families. And to their families.”

“The olden days?”

“Yes.” Kellen hesitated, then reminded her, “Now, too. My first husband abused me. I was lucky to escape alive.”

“I know, Mommy. I’m sorry.” Rae hugged her, and leaned her head against Kellen’s shoulder.

When had she grown tall enough to reach Kellen’s shoulder? “So consider your partners carefully,” Kellen said. “No one’s perfect, but no one has the right to hurt you.”

“You told me before. I believe you. Let’s sit down and read Ruby’s diary!” Rae led her toward the couch.

“She wanted her thoughts to be private,” Kellen reminded her.

“From her mean old father. Not from us! She would have liked us!”

“I think she would have.” This was the entertainment Kellen had been looking for: a journal from long ago, and a gentle recalling of growing up in a former time.

Rae thrust the diary at Kellen. “You read it.” She snuggled against Kellen’s side.

“The handwriting is awfully small.” But beautifully formed and clear. Kellen clicked on the floor lamp beside the couch. “I’ll read for a while, then you.”

The world receded as they read: