I read my dead mother’s diary. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.

I tip-toed slowly through the dark hallways of the ancient hospice care. I’d only been awake for a few minutes, and my eyes felt heavy with sleep. At first I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly had interrupted my slumber. It had been a sound, I knew that much, but it was too distant and muffled to properly comprehend.

My first instinct had been to wake up my mother, but her bed had been emptied, messy and cold. She’d clearly been gone for a while. Still, her instructions had been clear: Stay in the room at night, and don’t go outside to look for trouble.