Lily stood up and lowered the flap. Each of the little cubbyholes was filled—one with stationery, another with matching envelopes, and still another with a roll of forty-nine-cent stamps. In the space under the cubicles sat a leather-bound book about two inches thick. Thinking it might be a first edition of one of the classics that her mother loved, she slid it out slowly and laid it on the desk. A thin piece of leather wrapped around a big brown button on the top kept it closed. She ran her fingers over the tooled title: Family Journal. Why hadn’t her mother ever showed it to her or even mentioned buying it?

She unwound the leather latch and opened the book. “Holy smoke! It’s not a book. It really is a journal. I wonder where Mama got it.” She opened it and started to flip through it when Holly peeked in the room.

“Mama, I hate it here. You’ve proven your point. Please take us home,” she begged. A tear slowly made its way down her cheek, showing that she was truly miserable.

Lily almost caved, but then a voice in her head reminded her to deliver what you promise. She remembered her mother saying those very words.

“But you haven’t proven your point,” Lily said. “When you’ve proven that you can be trusted, then we’ll have this discussion again. Until then, we’re staying right here.”

Holly wiped the tear away with the back of her hand and glared at her mother. “I’ll never forgive you for making me do this.” She turned around, crossed over to her room, and slammed the door.

Feeling as if she was reading something sacred, she stared at the first entry—small, neat handwriting from someone named Ophelia Smith.

June 1862, Vicksburg, Mississippi: My heart is broken. My life is in shambles and I have no idea what to do. I can run a household, but William took care of the plantation, and now he’s dead and gone. I’ve kept things going, but it hasn’t been easy. A woman doesn’t have the authority that a man does. William left six months ago to fight for the Confederacy. They brought his body home yesterday, and we buried him today. Now I have two children, a daughter, Matilda, and a son, Henry, to raise on my own. Times are hard right now, and children need a father, especially Henry, who isn’t old enough to help me run this place, and is already showing rebellious signs. I fear he’ll run off and join the fight as soon as he’s old enough. Our foreman left today, and several slaves have already run away, too. I can see nothing but disaster in the future. Our way of life is gone, but it’s all I know, so what do I do now?