Ten years ago, my life split in two.
I walked into a hotel room expecting to surprise my husband — and instead found him with my sister. The shock was instant, the pain unforgettable. I divorced him, cut ties with my family, and built a new life on the ashes of the old one. I told myself I was done with both of them forever.
Then my sister died.
When my dad begged me to attend the funeral, I resisted. Grief mixed with anger, resentment tangled with memories, and I didn’t know how to feel anything except numb. But I went — not for her, I told myself, but for him.
A few days later, while packing up her belongings, I found a small box tucked away in her closet. Inside was a journal wrapped in a faded ribbon we used to share as kids. My stomach dropped. I hesitated, unsure whether I could handle reopening wounds I’d spent a decade trying to forget.
But my hands moved anyway.
What I expected were excuses. What I found was the truth.
The Journal That Rewrote Everything I Thought I Knew
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