Inside were stacks of financial papers, tax returns, and property deeds.

But behind them, tucked into the very back of the deep drawer, was a shoebox.

The box was old, the cardboard faded and worn at the corners.

I lifted it out and set it on the desk.

I opened the lid.

Inside were three small, spiral-bound notebooks with cardboard covers.

They looked like the kind of journals children used in middle school.

The paper was yellowed with age.

On the cover of the first notebook, the name *Nathan* was written in neat, blocky print.

I opened the first journal.

The handwriting was shaky, the letters large and unformed.

*May 14th,* the first entry read.

*She locked me in the cellar again.*

*She said I was dirty.*

*She said the dark would wash the bad thoughts out of me.*

My stomach sickness returned, sharp and hot.

I turned the page, the dry paper whispering in the quiet room.

*She doesn’t like when I speak,* the entry from a week later read.

*She says my voice sounds like my father’s.*