That evening, I waited until Ethan took Noah for a walk, then searched for the notebook.
I found it hidden beneath baby clothes in a bottom drawer we rarely used.
Feeling ashamed that it had come to invading his privacy, I opened directly to the latest entry.
“Today I was afraid I couldn’t do this,” it read.
“Last night your mom cried because the yellow swaddle wouldn’t fold, and I told her it didn’t matter, and then I came in here and cried too because I couldn’t fix anything. It is the night I ate two candy bars and cold fries at two in the morning because I was scared that if I went back to bed, I would lie there and count all the ways I might fail both of you.”
My eyes immediately filled with tears.
The entry continued.
“When you are older, I want you to know your mother was brave even when she thought she was broken. I want you to know she kept reaching for you, even on the days she couldn’t reach for herself.”
The truth hit me so suddenly that I nearly dropped the notebook.
It was written for Noah.
Every entry was for him.
I continued reading, stunned and ashamed.
“This is the night I drank from one of those awful tiny bottles because I thought maybe it would make me sleep,” he wrote. “It didn’t. So I am writing this down instead because maybe if I write the fear somewhere else, it won’t sit on my chest so hard.”
I stopped there.
My heart broke for him.
Unable to continue, I went to the veranda and waited for my husband and son to return from their walk.
They found me crying with the notebook pressed against my chest.
For a moment, Ethan and I only stared at one another. Noah was asleep in his stroller.
“Mara,” he said. “I can explain.”
His voice was not defensive.
