“Why is this even still in here?” she muttered as she took it out of the frame and tossed it in the trash. She could almost hear her mother’s voice saying that when she had passed away, Lily and Wyatt had still been married. Well, they damn sure weren’t anymore, and she didn’t need reminders of the pain that she had endured.

She found five more pictures of herself and Wyatt and put them into the trash can before she slowly climbed the staircase and looked at photos of her life from birth to graduation from college on the two walls. When she reached the landing, she peeked in Holly’s open door, but her daughter didn’t even look up from the book she was reading.

That reminded Lily of the journal, so she went to her room, got it out, and crawled into her bed with it. The pages had crumbled at the edges, so she turned the first one slowly and respectfully. The second entry was dated November 1862:

I’m numb with shock, disappointment, and even more with worry. Henry ran away from home two weeks ago and joined the Union army. He’s only fifteen. I feel like he has betrayed his father by doing this, and it’s hard for me to hold my head up in town as well as in church. People look at me like I have leprosy, and sometimes I feel like maybe I do. How did I fail my son so much that he’d betray what we believe? What great sin have I committed that I have to bear this burden? I believe Henry did it because of Malachi, who is a son to one of our slaves. Malachi’s mother was Henry’s wet nurse, and he bonded with her and with her son who is just days older than my Henry. They’ve played together like brothers their whole lives. He took Malachi with him, and left a note for me, saying they were both joining the Union troops that had marched through here. He’s always said that when the war is over he’ll be old enough to take over the plantation, and he will free all our slaves. Such an optimist, he is, and so foolish. Who’s going to work the cotton fields? Who will take care of his everyday needs, like cooking and laundry? He’s just a child with big dreams. So now it’s just me and Matilda in this huge house. There was no cotton crop this year. The Yankees burned what we had. I wonder how much longer we’ll be able to hold out. I may have to walk away from everything William and I have built and go live with my brother in Georgia. Matilda will throw a fit if that happens.