She stopped opening the
notebook for ninety days.
It sat on the kitchen
counter next to the
coffee maker, the spine
softening from steam,
pages curling at the
corners like they were
trying to leave.
On day ninety-one she
opened it. The first
line was the same one
she had written on day
one:
I am so tired of being the strong one.
She read it out loud.
Twice. The kitchen was
quiet, and for the first
time in a long time,
that quiet did not feel
like a verdict.
It felt like permission.