"I know," he says without hesitation. "And when that day comes, you come see me, okay?"

***

"My mouth tastes pukey," she says, stumbling to her bathroom. I don't think she's drunk anymore, just tired. She pauses with the toothbrush in her mouth and glances at me quickly before opening the cupboard under the sink and handing me a new one. When she's done, she flops onto her bed, her legs dangling off the edge with one arm covering her eyes. "Goodnight."

Chuckling, I stand over her and take her in. All of her. My heart does that thing. That tightening thing, the one that randomly reminds me of how in love with her I am. "Let's get your clothes off."

"Seriously, Cam?" she whines. "My brothers are in the next room."

"Yeah, Luce," I mock. "I was planning on having my way with you. Why do you think I'm here?"

She leans up on her elbows, her eyes unfocused. She glares at me curiously, questioning if I'm serious.

I roll my eyes and ask, "Where are your pj's?"

"Bottom drawer," she says, pointing to her dresser.

I pull out the drawer and find the ones I bought her for Christmas last year. The pair that says Boys in books are better. She laughed when she opened it, but pounced on me and kissed all over my face. "It's a lie, you know?" she said. "No fictional boy has ever compared to you."

I pull them out of the drawer, but stop halfway when I see a book underneath. It's leather bound and old looking. "Is this your diary?" I tease, turning to her.

"What?"

I lift it and show her.

"Oh, no. That's my mom's. She gave it to me before she died."

"Oh." I feel like an asshole.

"It's okay," she says. "Actually, bring it here."

I pick it up carefully and take it to her, along with her pj's. I undress and re-dress her slowly. Taking in every curve of her body. When I'm done, she gets into her bed and pats the spot next to her. I shrug out of my jeans and get in. "This is nice," she says. "Having you here. Spending the night with you."

We get comfortable, side by side with her head in the crook of my arm. She places her mom's diary on my chest. "I used to read it when she started to get really sick and she could barely talk. I'd take it into my closet and read with a flashlight." She yawns loudly. "Sometimes I'd take my covers and throw them over me. She used to do that with us kids. She'd create a makeshift tent in the living room and sit us in a circle while she read us stories. I always sat next to her." She laughs once, but it's the sad kind. "She used to pretend that she didn't know words and get me to read them to her. She'd make me feel so smart, you know?" She wipes her eyes across my arm. The warmth of her tears soaks my skin. "I miss her."

"I know, baby."

"Will you read some to me?"

"Are you sure?"

She nods through a yawn. "Just a little, until I fall asleep."

I pick up the diary and flip it to the first page. Then I start to read to her.

When I was a kid, we had a dog. A car hit it when I was ten. I cried and cried. I screamed and yelled and Mom would hold me in her arms and tell me that it was okay. "But I love Mimi," I'd tell her. "I love her so much! More than anything in the entire world!"

Mom laughed at me. "Wait until you have kids," she'd said.

And I never believed her, not until now, not until I write this entry with Lucy in my arms. She's an entire day old. And she's more perfect than the greatest harmony, or the brightest double rainbow.

She's more than I ever let myself dream.

Tom's sitting in the chair in the corner of the room with a blanket thrown over him, snoring lightly. I don't know who had a worse time during labor; him or me. He cried. He's never cried. Not that I know of, anyway. But he did. He cried like a big old goofball. He said he was jealous because now he'd have to share my love. But he was wrong.

Love has no limits. No boundaries. No time. It's eternal. Forever.

And as I look down at my little baby girl, I've never felt such truth before.

So Mom, if you can somehow read this—from where you sit in your fluffy clouds in heaven—I want you to know that you were right. There's absolutely no love greater than the one you have for your children. Nothing.

I stop reading and glance down at her; she's fallen asleep. Her eyes are closed and her breaths are even. Her mouth's partially open, drooling onto my arm. I should be grossed out, but it's kind of cute.

I get more comfortable and read more of the pages. More of the life of a woman I wish I got the chance to know. A lot of the entries are about Lucy, and I wonder if each of the boys have something similar—a piece of her to keep forever.

I don't even realize how heavy my eyelids are until I get to the last page, but it's in different writing. It's Lucy's. I look down at her again. She hasn't moved since getting in this position. I question whether to read it or not, but she let me read it. She wanted me to.

Dear Mom,

I've never wished for you to be alive more than I wish now. I wish that you were here so you could sit in the closet with me while you pretend to be engrossed in all my girly secrets, like you used to when I was a kid. We'd giggle together and you'd ask me questions that were so insignificant to you, but you'd make them feel so significant to me. You always did that. In a house full of seven children, you always managed to make us all feel like individuals. Each of us was our own selves. But each of us was a piece of you, and dad, and each other.

But you're not here. And every day I miss you more and more. Even though some days, especially lately, I think about the hurt of missing you less and less. I hurt less and less, Mom. And do you want to know why? It's a secret, but I'll share it with you.

It's because of a boy.

His name is Cameron.

And I think I'm in love with him.

I know you'd giggle now, and think to yourself, 'You don't know true love, you're only fifteen.'

But you'd keep asking questions anyway, and you'd make me feel less dumb for thinking that if this isn't true love, then I don't want to know what true love is. I just want to feel this—whatever I feel for him—forever.

Because in a time of nothing but pain, and anger, and emptiness, and hurt... he healed me.

He made it stop.

He made it better.

He made me fall in love.

Love.

I love him.

And he shows up every day, thinking that I don't see him. That I don't want to speak to him. That I don't pay attention to him. But I do.

Some day I'll get the nerve to kiss him.

And someday after that, I'll get the courage to tell him that I love him.

Or... I could just sit here and keep dreaming about how hot he is. Maybe I'll just do that.

I blow out a breath and give my heart time to settle. The thumping weakens. The pace slows. The ache is still there. I rub my hand against it, hoping that it'll ease it somehow. But it's not a pain causing it. It's love.

I close the diary, set it on the nightstand, and switch off the lamp. I wrap both arms around her, bringing her as close as possible, but not close enough.

"I love you, Cameron," she whispers.