My mother never truly approved of my wife.
On our wedding day, I remember her teary eyes as she pulled me aside and whispered, “Son, she’s not the one for you.” I smiled, trying to reassure her. “One day, you’ll love her too,” I replied. She said nothing more—just gave me a tight hug and walked away.
Two years later, my mother passed away. When I returned to her home to sort through her belongings, I stumbled upon something that made me question everything I thought I knew.
While cleaning out her bedroom, I spotted a small leather-bound journal tucked beneath the bed. Its initials—D.K.—made my heart skip. Danika. My wife.
Danika had once mentioned losing that diary in college. Yet here it was, carefully preserved. Curious, I opened it.
At first, the entries were light—college notes, daily reflections, small dreams. But as I turned the pages, a name kept appearing: Vaughn.
The entries shifted in tone.
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