It wasn’t long after Alice that I found the diary, hidden in the folds of blankets, shoved from my sight, or was it your own? They were written to him. “Sorry” it read in your scrawling script on the cover and over and over again, page after page inside, as though the more often you wrote it, the further down it would reach until it would wake him from his eternal slumber and he’d return to us. But all the words did was darken the page, while the response that would never come darkened your heart and left no space for me. Not anymore. My tears christened the pages, and I wiped them away, streaking your rosary of apology and staining my fingers with your guilt. I hid it once more between the sheets. Burying things had become our ritual. I hated it.