On the coffee table at my parents’ house sits a blue leather one-line-a-day journal.

I admit, it’s a strange artifact to occupy that space. One, neither of my parents is a writer or journal-keeper. Two, so many other things would seem to be more appropriate for that space: day-old newspapers, decorations commemorating whatever the season is, a dog toy, maybe.

At first, I thought the journal didn’t even belong to my mom or dad. A left-over Christmas gift, perhaps, forgotten by some out-of-town family member who had long since left? A gift for someone else that Mom was keeping out so she would remember to give it to whomever it was intended?

But I was wrong. On multiple counts.

My mom, it turns out, is a journal keeper. That journal is hers. It does belong on the coffee table in the living room, as a constant reminder for her to…

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