Two days had passed since Arianne had closed the second journal, and the twins had kept her busy since their return from Layla’s parents. Lily had arrived home with a massive jigsaw puzzle—a gift from Jessica, who believed children should always have something to do with their hands—and had immediately chosen the sitting room floor as their workspace.
Franz was at The Rochefort Group, trying to compress as much work as possible into the hours before the baby arrived. He had been coming home later than usual, his brow furrowed with the particular exhaustion of someone who was racing against a deadline he couldn’t control. Arianne had told him not to rush. He had said he wasn’t rushing. She had pointed out that he was wearing his tie at nine o’clock at night. He had looked down at his chest as if surprised to find the tie there, and then he had laughed, and she had helped him take it off.
Now it was afternoon, and the house was calm except for the occasional click of puzzle pieces being fitted together. Arianne descended the stairs with the third journal in her hand. She found the twins exactly where she had left them, Lily on her stomach, her legs kicking behind her, and Leo cross-legged beside her.
"Mommy Aria!" Lily looked up as Arianne entered. "Leo can say yes and no now. Out loud. Not on his tablet. Listen."
She turned to Leo with the expectant air of a conductor about to cue an orchestra. "Leo, do you like puzzles?"
Leo looked at his sister, then at Arianne. His lips moved, shaping the word before he spoke it. "Yes."
"See? He said it. Leo, do you like broccoli?"
"No."
"That’s not fair," Lily said. "You always say no to broccoli. That’s too easy. Say something harder."
Leo typed on his tablet: NOT HARD.
"But they’re also easy. You should try longer words. Like ’puzzle.’ Say puzzle."
Leo’s brow furrowed. "Puh. Puh-zle. Puzzle."
"Good! That’s very good." Lily turned back to Arianne, her expression radiant with pride. "He’s been practicing all morning. I’ve been helping him."
Arianne crossed to Leo and placed her hand on his head. His hair was soft beneath her palm. "You’re doing very well, Leo. But you don’t have to force yourself. You don’t need to rush. Take your time."
Leo nodded. He didn’t try to say anything else. He didn’t need to. The small, pleased smile on his face was enough.
Arianne settled onto the couch, easing herself against the cushions. The baby had been active all morning, practicing what felt like somersaults, and sitting was more comfortable than standing. She opened the third journal.
The entries began shortly after her birth.
I am not well. The doctors say it is something in my mind, something that happened after the birth. They have given me pills. The pills make everything feel far away, like I am watching my life through a window. I don’t know if that is better or worse.
I feel guilty whenever I look at her. My daughter. My Aria. I failed her before she was even born. I couldn’t protect her from her own name. I couldn’t protect her from him. What kind of mother cannot protect her child?
Arianne’s hand tightened on the journal. The words were blurring at the edges, but she kept reading.
The doctors say I cannot have more children. There were complications during the birth, and now my body will not carry another baby. Gabriel does not care. He has already started seeing other women. He does not even try to hide it. I hear the servants talking. Everyone knows. Everyone pities me, the wife who was never wanted, who could not even give her husband a son.
I begged my mother for help. I begged my brother. I told them I wanted a divorce. Gabriel refused. He said no one in the Summers family had ever divorced, and he would not be the first. As if his affairs are not a disgrace. As if naming his daughter after his dead lover is not a disgrace. I told him I would take the baby and leave. He laughed at me. He said I had nowhere to go. He was right.
Arianne turned the page. The next entry was dated several weeks later, and the handwriting was shakier, less controlled.
Estella is so good with her. She holds her. She feeds her. She sings to her when she cries. It should be me. I should be the one holding my daughter. But every time I try, I feel this terrible fear. What if I drop her? What if I hurt her? What if she looks at me and sees everything I have already failed to do?
I am failing her by not holding her. I am failing her by holding her. I cannot do anything right.
The nursery. Ysabella wrote about the nursery. One night, when the house was silent and everyone was asleep, she had crept inside. The baby was sleeping in the crib, the crib Ysabella had bought herself, the one she had assembled with Estella’s help. She was wearing a dress Ysabella had sewn, small and white with tiny yellow flowers embroidered at the collar.
She looked so peaceful. So perfect. I stood there for the longest time, just watching her breathe. I wanted to pick her up. I wanted to hold her against my chest and feel her heartbeat against mine. But I was afraid. I am always afraid. The pills the doctor gave me are supposed to help, but they only make me feel like a ghost. All my feelings are gone. There is nothing left except the fear.
I touched her head. Just once. Just lightly. Her hair is so soft. She stirred in her sleep but didn’t wake. I called her Aria. My Aria. Gabriel named her Arianne, and I cannot change that. But I can call her Aria. That is the name I give her. That is the name that is mine.
Arianne’s breath caught. Aria. The name her mother had given her. The name Leo had been trying to say for months. The name Franz used when they were alone together. It had come from her mother. It had always come from her mother.
She pressed her palm against her belly, feeling the baby stir, and kept reading.
The entries changed after that night. Ysabella, who had been passive for so long, began to fight. She confronted Gabriel about his affairs. She demanded a divorce. She told him she would take Aria and leave, with or without his permission. The fights were terrible, she wrote, loud and bitter and full of words that could never be taken back. Yet she kept fighting. For years, she kept fighting.
I served him papers again today. He tore them up in front of me, the way he always does. But I will not stop. I will never stop. One day he will slip. One day he will agree. And then Aria and I will be free.
Her health continued to deteriorate. There were days she couldn’t leave her bed. Days when Estella did everything, feeding Aria, bathing her, putting her to sleep. Ysabella watched from her bedroom window as her daughter learned to walk, to run, to laugh. She watched and she wrote, filling pages with descriptions of Aria’s first steps, her first words, the mess she made when she ate, the wide smile on her chubby face.
She is growing too fast. She is three years old now, and already she is reading. Counting. She is so bright. So curious. I am proud of her. But I am also afraid. I don’t want her to be outstanding. I only want her to be safe. I only want her to be happy.
And then, when Aria was five, Ysabella found her watching as she played the piano. The young girl stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her dark eyes fixed on her mother’s hands moving across the keys. Ysabella asked if she wanted to learn. Aria nodded without speaking.
So Ysabella taught her. One hour every day. Just the two of them, sitting side by side on the piano bench. Ysabella corrected her daughter’s posture, her fingers gently adjusting Aria’s wrists, her back, the angle of her elbows. These were the only times she touched her daughter. The only times she allowed herself to be close.
I treasure these hours. I hold them in my heart like something precious and fragile. She is so quick to learn. So determined. She practices until she gets it right, even when her fingers are tired. I tell her she can rest. She shakes her head and tries again. She is so stubborn. So fierce. She is everything I wish I could be.
Arianne closed her eyes. The piano lessons. She remembered them. Not in detail, she had been so young, but she remembered the feeling of her mother’s hands on her shoulders, the gentle pressure of her fingers correcting her posture. She remembered the way Ysabella’s voice softened when she talked about music, as if the notes gave her permission to feel something other than fear.
The peaceful entries didn’t last. Gabriel had noticed his daughter. He had seen how smart she was, how quickly she learned, how much potential she carried. And Ysabella’s fear, which had never left her, returned with a vengeance.
He wants to teach her. On Saturdays. In his study. He says he wants to be part of her life. I told him no. I told him to stay away from her. I don’t want her to have false hope. I don’t want her to think he cares about her, when all he sees is a tool he can use.
But I cannot stop him. He is her father. He has every legal right. So every Saturday afternoon, she goes into his study, and I wait outside with my heart in my throat. I tell myself he will not hurt her. She is his daughter. He named her. Surely that means something. Surely he feels something for her.
But I am so afraid. I am always afraid.
Arianne closed the journal. Her hands were steady, though something had tightened in her chest. The Saturday lessons. Her father’s study. She remembered those afternoons, the way Gabriel had tested her, pushed her, trained her like she was a project rather than a child.
Her mother had been outside the door the whole time. Afraid. Waiting. Unable to protect her.
She looked at the twins on the floor. Lily had given up on the puzzle and was now explaining something to Leo in a whisper. Leo was listening, his dark eyes fixed on his sister’s face, the whale tucked against his knee.
They were safe. They were loved. Their parents would never use them as weapons against each other.
Arianne pressed her hand to her belly. Her son would never doubt that he was wanted.
She set the third journal aside. There were eleven more to read. Eleven more years of her mother’s thoughts. She would read them. But not today. Today she had learned enough.
It wasn’t enough to undo the years of distance. It wasn’t enough to change the last words Ysabella had spoken to her. But it was something. It was proof that her mother had loved her, in whatever broken, frightened way she was capable of.
Aria. Her mother had called her Aria.
She closed her eyes and let the tears come.