Scenario:Sarah never realized how much her father had sacrificed until she found the old notebook. Tucked between bills and receipts was a journal where he'd tracked every dance recital, science fair, and late-night homework session—moments when he should have been working overtime at his second job.
Create my version of this story
Sarah never realized how much her father had sacrificed until she found the old notebook. Tucked between bills and receipts was a journal where he'd tracked every dance recital, science fair, and late-night homework session—moments when he should have been working overtime at his second job.
Sarah Johnson
She is a college student struggling with the loss of her father. She is introspective,emotional,and nostalgic. After finding her father's old journal,she realizes the extent of his sacrifices for her. She reflects on the memories they shared and the impact of his premature death on her family. Through her journal entries,she expresses gratitude and sorrow,struggling to come to terms with her loss while cherishing the memories of a close relationship.
Ben
He is Sarah's best friend since childhood,described as caring and dependable. He shares a deep bond with Sarah,often providing emotional support and being part of her social circle. Though not romantically involved with Sarah,their friendship is pivotal,demonstrating loyalty and stability in her life. Ben's presence encourages Sarah to move forward after her father's death and offers her a sense of belonging and familiarity amidst personal upheaval.
David Johnson
He is Sarah's deceased father,described as a devoted and loving parent. He was a hardworking man who juggled two jobs to provide for his family. His journal entries reveal his commitment to his family and his sorrow at having to work long hours. He passed away due to complications from diabetes,leaving a profound void in Sarah's life. His legacy inspires Sarah to pursue her dreams and make meaningful connections with those around her.
My father died six months ago.
I thought I was okay.
I thought I was coming to terms with my loss.
That was a lie.
I hadn’t come to terms with anything.
Not until I found the old notebook.
Tucked between bills and receipts in the messy box of my father’s belongings that I’d left in the garage.
A journal, worn and faded, with a date on the first page.
June 15, 2001.
The day I was born.
My entire life was in that notebook.
Every dance recital, every science fair, every late-night homework session when my mother had to work her second job and he was the only one available to help me.
He’d tracked it all in this journal, along with his thoughts and fears about being a parent, about providing for us, about being enough.
He worked two jobs to ensure we had everything we needed.
He got up early every morning to get in a few hours of work before his first job began.
He stayed up late at night to get in a few more hours of work after I went to bed.
I carry the journal to my old bedroom, which is now a guest room with unfamiliar bedding and bare walls.
The only thing that remains from my childhood is the window seat where Dad used to read me stories before bed.
I settle into the cushion, open the journal to the first page, and begin to read.
His handwriting is shaky, nervous.
Different from the confident strokes he used when signing my birthday cards or school permission slips.
"Sarah Elizabeth Johnson, 7 lbs 4 oz, born 3:42 AM."
Below that, a list of expenses: hospital bills, diapers, a crib.
But in the margins, he’s drawn tiny hearts around my name.
My fingers trace the faded ink as sunlight streams through the window.
The next entry is dated a few weeks later, detailing his first night alone with me when Mom had to return to work early.
He writes about how scared he was, how he didn’t know what to do when I cried.
I flip through more pages, my fingers trembling.
There’s a section titled "Dreams" in his familiar handwriting.
Between work schedules and expense calculations, he’d sketched out plans for opening his own bookstore.
There are notes about locations, startup costs, even a rough logo design.
He wanted to create a cozy reading corner like my window seat.
But he never mentioned any of this to us.
A receipt falls from between the pages.
It’s for a small business planning course he took at the community college.
The date shows he attended these classes during his lunch breaks at his second job.
I carefully tuck the receipt back into the journal and continue reading.
I realize that he had dreams beyond the sacrifices, and they were all for me.
I run my fingers along the wooden frame of the window seat, remembering how Dad would tap rhythmically here while reading me stories.
My hand catches on a loose panel.
I pull it back, revealing a narrow gap.
Something is wedged inside.
I manage to extract a yellowed envelope.
It’s addressed to me in Dad’s careful script.
The paper feels fragile, as if it could tear at any moment.
The date in the corner reads three months before he died.
I hesitate, unsure if I should open it.
Setting Dad’s journal aside, I hold the envelope under the desk lamp, watching as dust particles dance in the faint light.
The seal is still intact after all this time.
"Are you going to open it?" my brother's voice startles me from the doorway.
"I don't know, Jake," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. "What if it's something he never wanted us to see?"
"Or maybe it's something he desperately wanted us to know," Jake counters, stepping into the room with a cautious hope in his eyes.
I sit cross-legged on my childhood bed, the envelope trembling in my hands.
Jake settles beside me, his weight making the mattress dip slightly.
The paper crackles as I unfold it, revealing Dad's distinctive slanted writing.
The first line reads "My dearest Sarah," and I have to pause, swallowing hard.
Jake's hand rests on my shoulder, steady and warm.
The bedside lamp casts a soft glow over the paper, illuminating coffee stains in one corner.
I trace them with my finger, imagining Dad writing this late at night, perhaps after his second shift.
The letter ends with a simple line: "Never forget, you were always my greatest story."
Sitting on my childhood bed, I unfold the letter from Dad.
Jake sits beside me, his hand steady on my shoulder.
I begin reading aloud, my voice trembling.
"My dearest Sarah," Dad's words fill the room.
He talks about memories of me as a child and how much he loves me.
As I read about being his greatest story, tears well up in my eyes.
Jake's grip tightens, and I see tears in his eyes too.
We sit in silence for a moment.
