Right after the funeral of our 15-year-old daughter, my husband insisted that I get rid

Underneath the bed lay a dusty cardboard box, taped shut and seemingly forgotten. My hands shook as I pulled it out, dust motes swirling in the dim room like tiny spirits. The box was heavier than I expected, and my heart pounded as I set it on the floor and gingerly peeled away the tape.

Inside, I found a collection of notebooks, journals, and scraps of paper. Each one was filled with my daughter’s handwriting. I picked up the first notebook—it was a deep blue, her favorite color—and opened it. Tears blurred my vision as I read the first entry, dated almost a year before her death.

“Dear Mom, I know you might find this one day. I hope you do. There’s so much I wish I could say, but I’m afraid and don’t know how.”

As I continued to read, I realized the notebook was a diary of sorts, a chronicle of my daughter’s innermost thoughts and feelings. She wrote of her struggles, of feeling isolated, and of pressures that she couldn’t share with us. She wrote about friends who weren’t true, about feeling like she was never enough, and about a darkness that sometimes overwhelmed her.