In her small, gloved hands, she was holding a thick, worn leather journal.
My cousin spotted me from near the entrance and rushed over, grabbing my arm gently.
“Annie, you made it,” she whispered, her voice still trembling. “Look at her. She brought your sister’s old diary—the one she left at your house years ago. But that’s not all…”
Before I could walk over to my daughter, my sister finally found her voice. “Sophie—Amelia—sweetie,” she choked out, her voice echoing in the grand hall. “Please… put that away. This is supposed to be our special day. Your father and I love you. Why are you doing this?”
My daughter didn’t flinch. She turned slightly to face the entire audience of relatives and friends, her voice clear, articulate, and completely devoid of fear.
“I came today because Grandma told me I had to support my family,” my daughter said into the microphone near the front pew. “And because my dad told me that love means telling the truth. So I brought the truth.”
