Dearest Journal,

I can hardly believe the words I am about to write. Mother has died. The words seem no less harsh upon the page than they did in my ears. There is no softer way to break the news for each phrase seems as harsh and ugly to me. I can hardly believe that she is no more, but I held her hand, I stroked her brow, and no life remained. She had passed on to the Lord’s domain before we had even arrived home.

There is nothing between this devastation and the thought that I am the one to blame. I knew she was ill, knew that she felt the end was near, but I did not believe her. I may have thought I did, but in truth my understanding was but that of a naive daughter who could not believe her mother might ever leave her. Had Ace and I not run away, had we stopped for a moment and tried to reason with her. To call off my engagement and create one of our own, she might still be with us, but we did not. I can only reason that I, therefore, am the cause of this.

How I wish she were still here. How I wanted her to look upon Ace, to see our happiness and our reasons. I wished her to see her grandchildren, to hold them in her arms and smile at them. But now that future will never be. I do not even have a letter from her since my marriage, all I am left with are questions and guilt.

Ace has been my rock through all this. How can I burden him with these thoughts, this guilt I feel? I can not. All I can do is try to continue on, to take strength in his comfort and his love.

Requiescant in pace.