He would have taken my boy across an ocean and called it a better life. And a later one, pressed so hard the pen had nearly torn the paper: I will never let anyone take him from me.

Not a friend, not a girl, not anyone.

I have made sure of it before and I will make sure of it again. That line — I have made sure of it before — I read four times, and each time it meant something worse.

There were pages that were only a single sentence written over and over, sometimes crossed out, sometimes underlined: She cannot take him.

No one can take him. And near the back, tucked between two pages like a pressed flower, I found one of our wedding photographs — Julian and me, laughing, my veil caught in the wind.

Julian’s face was untouched.