I stopped five feet away as the driver’s side door slowly clicked open.

An interior dome light turned on, illuminating a face I hadn’t seen look this tired in years.

My father sat behind the wheel, his hands gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

On the passenger seat next to him sat a battered, taped-up cardboard box.

I took a step closer, my breath rising in a pale cloud between us.

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and anxious in the dim light of the cabin.

“Sarah,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

He reached over and touched the top of the box.

“I had to wait until she was asleep,” he said.

I looked at the box, recognizing the faded blue marker on the side.

It was my handwriting from fifteen years ago.

“What is that?” I asked, my voice barely reaching him over the idling engine.

He reached down to lift the lid, his hand trembling as he peeled back the old packing tape.

Inside, stacked neatly in chronological order, were my childhood science journals—the ones my mother had told me she threw away when I left for Stanford.