My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

One August afternoon, while clearing the attic more thoroughly than I had yet managed, I found a flat box tucked behind old beach umbrellas and a cracked wooden croquet set. Inside was a stack of legal pads filled with my mother’s handwriting.

Not letters. Notes.

Recipes, grocery lists, half-drafted birthday messages, and between them, pages of observations. Fragments. Thoughts she had written to herself over the years at the beach house and then forgotten.

Rebecca thinks the sea can hear her. I hope she never loses this delusion.

Thomas was almost happy today. Strange how men become themselves around practical tasks and strangers but not always in their own kitchens.

Diana visited with too much perfume and not enough humility. Watches objects as though inventorying a future.

If I leave the hydrangeas to Rebecca, she will either kill them immediately or love them into chaos. Both outcomes feel right.

I sat cross-legged in the dust and read until the attic light turned gold and then amber around me.

There was one entry, dated two years before her diagnosis, that I copied onto a card and kept by my bed afterward.