The girls were still in shock when it came to the differences between both their fathers' personalities, yet they had two things in common: they weren't fit to be a father, and they both were absent.
The notebook creaked when Scilla opened it.
The first page was dated April 3rd, 1995.
Her mother's handwriting filled the lines neat, careful, but tinged with a tension neither sister had ever seen in her script before. This wasn't a journal like the others. This was something else. A record. A reckoning. Aurelia read aloud this time.
April 3rd, 1995
I wasn't supposed to write this. But I can't. I need a place to put what's happening, even if no one ever reads it. Especially if the girls do. One day.
Today, I was told the girls and I aren't safe anymore. That Bruce has lost it and is now after me, I have a soon-to-be one-year-old come August, and a newborn on the way less than a week later. I will have to keep being on the move until Bruce finds something else to be mad at. My first only mistake when it came to my life was trusting them both. Once. One gave me lies and false love. The other gave me abuse and death threats, Both gave me daughters. I will keep my baby daughters safe no matter what.
Aurelia continued to go through pages and pages trying to find answers.
June 19th 2004
We have been safe now and the girls are growing like weeds, they are so happy and cheery. I love how lively they are. I love them so much, both fathers sent letters to the girls for them to read once they get older. My girls have beautiful talents, both artists in their own way.
The air felt thicker with every page Aurelia turned. Each entry was a window, some cracked, some wide open into the life their mother had kept hidden in the quiet corners of herself. Scilla sat cross-legged, still, eyes glued to the page as if it might flinch and run if she looked away. Aurelia read on.
July 7th, 2004
It's been almost a month since they both sent letters. Can you believe that? Bruce's was typed. Cold. Like he thought using polite words would make me forget the way he screamed, the way the floorboards remembered the weight of his fists. He said he hopes "the girls aren't damaged." He called them "reminders." He doesn't get it. They're not reminders of pain. They're proof I survived it. And they're better than both their fathers combined. Aurelia's voice caught for a moment, but she kept going.
October 29th, 2007
Aurelia drew wings on the kitchen wall today.
Said she needed more space to "fly in her head." I didn't stop her.
Scilla made cinnamon toast with cinnamon and paprika. I ate it anyway.
They keep the light in this house burning, even when everything else feels like a flicker.
Some nights I lie awake and wonder if the girls will ever know the weight of the choices I made. If they'll see them as sacrifices or selfishness. I hope they know I never ran away from them.
I ran with them.
Aurelia closed the notebook slowly. They were both quiet. Not in shock this time, but something heavier. Settled. Like silt in still water. "She gave us everything," Scilla whispered. "And they gave her hell," Aurelia said. They sat in it for a while, the warmth of the sunlight slanting across the floor, the hum of the fridge in the next room the only sound. The notebook still rested between them, but now it felt less like a weight and more like a bridge. Scilla stood up first. "Would you like some tea and honey?" She asked her sister. "Yes, please," Aurelia replied. Later that evening, the sky outside the living room windows had turned that soft shade of watercolor blue that only came after a long, emotional day the kind of hue that made you feel like maybe everything wasn't broken, just in the process of healing.
Scilla filled the kettle. Aurelia opened a jar of honey their mother used to keep tucked behind the sugar. It was old but still sweet. Still golden. Like memory. When the tea was ready, they curled up on opposite ends of the couch, their feet tangled in the middle, steaming mugs in hand. The silence between them now felt different. Not tense. Not heavy. Just full. They were safe. That part mattered most. They'd found truths they never asked for. And pain, they thought they'd buried deep. But in the end, they were still here together. Stronger. Clearer. Wiser.
"I think I want to start painting again," Aurelia said, staring into her tea. "Like… really painting. Not just on scraps or napkins." Scilla smiled softly. "You should. You always lit up when you talked about color. Like you could see the whole world differently." Aurelia looked over. "And you? What about you?" Scilla took a deep breath. "I think I want to get back into writing once more. Not just in journals. Not just poems or stories tucked into drawers." She paused. "I want to write stories. Real ones. Maybe even… a book." Aurelia's smile bloomed. "You should. You have so much to say." Scilla's eyes found her sister's. "So do you." They clinked their mugs together gently, like it was a promise. Their mother had always told them to "remember the soft things." And maybe this was what she meant this quiet. This choice. This moment of reaching for something more after grief had taken so much. The boxes were almost all empty now. The letters read. The past uncovered. But the future that was still being written. And this time, they were the ones holding the pen and the brush.