Another entry, months later:
Lenora took her first steps on the porch today. Thomas clapped so loud she sat down and cried. She has Diana’s eyes and Marcus’s stubborn little chin. Lord, help us protect this child without making fear her inheritance.
Lenora pressed the journal to her chest.
Fear had been near her beginning.
But it had not been her inheritance.
Love had.
The cemetery sat behind the church where Ruth used to sing. Lenora brought fresh flowers: white lilies for Ruth, yellow roses for Thomas. She knelt in the grass between their graves, the earth soft beneath her knees.
“I know now,” she said.
A breeze moved through the trees.
“I know what you gave up. I know what you protected me from. I know why you waited.” Her voice trembled. “I wish you had told me sooner. And I understand why you didn’t. Both things can be true.”
