The Notebook in the Kitchen

The notebook was sitting on the kitchen counter next to her purse.

It looked like something she took with her to work. Or something she had been using regularly. It wasn’t hidden or tucked away—just there, out in the open.

I picked it up out of curiosity. It was new. Only the first page had writing.

I recognized her handwriting right away—cursive, neat, familiar.

I read just enough to understand what it was.

A suicide note.

I closed it immediately. Put it back where I found it. And walked away.

I don’t remember what I did after that other than my mind racing, but not the thoughts themselves. Just the feeling of something shifting into place.

Not confusion. Not even shock. Something more direct.

I knew I needed to help her in whatever way I could.

I didn’t tell her I had seen it.

We didn’t talk about things like that. We never had. Communication between us was never open in that way. To this day, she doesn’t know I found it.

I never saw the notebook again.

What I felt in that moment wasn’t just concern.

It was fear.

If I lost her, there was somewhere else I would have to go.

To live with my father, Bob.

That thought didn’t need to be fully formed to take hold. It was already there.

At the same time, something else settled in.

I would take care of her, make things easier for her and not add to whatever she was already carrying.

And without saying it out loud, I made another decision too.

Whatever I was dealing with... I would keep it to myself.