“Ashira?” Bubby taps gently on my door, and I just manage to restrain a groan. I am not interested in talking about my day.

“Ashira, Yaakov stopped by, do you want to come down?”

Yaakov! I sit bolt upright. Why didn’t I think of him?!

I take the stairs two at a time. Yaakov’s sitting at the kitchen table with two blueberry muffins and an oversized mug of coffee.

“Hey, that’s my after-school snack,” I protest laughingly, reaching out to grab one.

He closes his hands around them, protectively. “Finders keepers, eh? Early bird catches the worm?”

“Very funny.” I sober up. “Listen, Yaakov, I can’t get hold of Ima, for like two days already. When did you last speak to her?”

“Ima?” He stops to think for a minute. “I guess before Shabbos. But Ashira, you know the phone lines there, half the time they don’t connect… you just need to keep trying. I get this all the time.”

“But the phone rang. They just didn’t pick up.”

My brother waves a hand, sending blueberry crumbs flying through the air. “Nah, that’s India, the phones act up. Keep trying, you’ll get through in the end.”

Keep trying?

I look over at Bubby. She’s joined us at the table, sipping a tea, and she doesn’t look particularly worried, either. Maybe there really is nothing to worry about.

But even without the worry, no one’s told me how I can actually speak to my mother.

Sleep, I have decided, is overrated.

Back home I often got super-tired, after a Thursday night marathon preparing for Shabbos, or when cleaning up after one of our mega-events. But here, I get to sleep early every night, and now evening comes again, and I’m simply bored.

I prowl the room, feeling empty and restless. The shelves in the closet are bare; the few outfits I bought with Aunt Chana are hanging on the rail opposite. There’s a desk in the corner I’ve never used; so far, we haven’t been given much written homework, just review, and whatever we do get, I’ve done during recess.

I sit down in the padded desk chair and open one of the drawers at random, wondering if they’re empty as well.

They’re not.

The top drawer contains pens in all shades, shapes, and sizes (including one with an oversized peacock feather glued on, and another with a furry koala teddy wrapped around it) alongside sticky notes, rubber bands, a small hairbrush, dried-out lip balm, several old receipts, and a few blank birthday cards.

Is this all Ima’s, from when she was a girl? Who’s used this room since then?

The next drawer down yields a treasure trove of paperbacks; they look like old-fashioned school stories. I’ve never picked up these kinds of books before, but hey, if it’s reading these or going back to Aunt Chana’s, I’m definitely leaning toward these yellowing paperbacks.

The last drawer contains art supplies, a couple of photo albums, and stacks of loose photos. I immediately recognize Ima as a girl and giggle for a moment at the hairstyles from way back when. There’s something else underneath the pictures, I realize — another book?

I tug at the colorful volume. Wait, this isn’t a book… it’s a diary. Ima’s diary, from—

I hesitate a moment, then open the diary to the first page, just to check if I was right. The handwriting is younger, messier, but undoubtedly Ima’s. And the date of the first entry is from February, 2001. More than 20 years ago. When Ima was around the age I am now.

Wow.

I am filled with an overwhelming desire to read the diary. It feels like a piece of Ima, something that connects us. I’m in her room, going to school in the place where she grew up, and now I’ve discovered this piece of her past. But I close the diary, squeeze my eyes shut. I won’t read it. I can’t. It’s not mine to read. Who knows what’s written in there? Maybe Ima wants it kept private. Does she even know it’s here?

If she wanted it kept private, I reasoned, surely she wouldn’t have left it in a desk drawer for anyone to find.

But then again, who ever opens these drawers? Maybe Ima has no idea it’s still here.

I waver, struggling against myself.

I’ll ask Ima. I’ll just ask her. Tomorrow. When I get through to her.

If I get through.

Yaakov and Bubby seemed so assured, so confident, but I’m the one who wants to speak to Ima already. Bubby had offered for me to call them via Skype, but that would’ve meant talking in the dining room, over computer screens, so I declined.

I’ll give it one more day.

I picture myself asking Ima whether I can read her diary, but I’m too embarrassed. It’s such a personal question to ask. I decide to just tell her I found it and leave it at that. See how she reacts.

I open the drawer to tuck the small book away where I found it, when it slips from my hand. A piece of paper flutters out, soft, tan-colored stationery.

It’s also in Ima’s handwriting, but it isn’t a part of the diary.

It’s a letter.

Some words jump out at me: angry words, capital letters, bolded by the writer having gone over and over the same letters until they stand out, gashes made of ink.

I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE—

I stop, horrified.

What has Ima written? What is she saying?

I forget the diary. I forget all my good resolutions not to read something not intended for me. I forget everything except the stormy, raging letter in my hands.

I sit down on the floor, and I read it.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 951)