Can you believe it? Asher is the most loving, caring, intelligent, talented guy in the world. I’ve never felt so incredibly hurt and unloved by my own family. They just threw me away like I’m garbage. They hate my baby and she’s not even born yet. She’s just an innocent baby! I can’t believe how horrible they’re acting. I wonder if they ever loved me at all.

I’ve been crying a lot and I can’t eat or sleep. Thankfully, Asher’s mom and his gram have been very good to me. They bought me clothes and baby care books and they spend a lot of time with me. I’m so grateful for Ash and his family. They all love me and my baby unconditionally and have showed me what real family is. I will never, ever treat my baby like my parents have treated me. I’ll always love her and be here for her no matter what.

Ember’s heartache bleeds through her words, and it’s contagious. How could her parents treat her that way and be so cruel? She was only fifteen years old.

I was only fifteen years old.

Everything Asher told me while I was still in the hospital is true—despite our ages, we really did love each other, and we wanted our baby. I don’t think those are decisions we should’ve made at such a young age, but at least we stayed committed to each other and the baby for our entire lives.

I mark my spot in the journal with a bookmark and lock it with the tiny key necklace. Not because someone else might read it, but because I like the soft, satisfying click of the miniature lock.

An odd, anxious feeling stirs in my stomach. From where I’m sitting, I can see the framed black-and-white photos of a toddler-aged Kenzi hanging in the hall leading to the kitchen. She’s smiling in every photo, radiating pure happiness.

The ache in my stomach slowly drifts up to the center of my chest, spreads to my throat, then blurs my eyes with warm tears.

Even though I can’t remember her, that’s my baby. The one I promised I would love no matter what.

I realize I haven’t been very good to Kenzi since I woke up. For reasons I can’t understand, I’ve refused to acknowledge that she’s pregnant, and anytime she’s visited me, she’s covered herself in baggy clothes to hide it. For me.

I’ve treated Kenzi almost as awful as Ember’s parents…my parents treated me—and I’m not okay with it. Is this feeling of sudden care and guilt some kind of motherly instinct? Memories? Just me trying to be a nice person? I have no idea. That’s one of the things about amnesia—I don’t even know what my feelings and thoughts are most of the time.

I grab my cell phone and find Kenzi’s number in my history and hit CALL.

“Hello?”

I swallow. “Hi. It’s Ember. From across the street.”

She laughs. “You don’t have to say that. I know who you are. Are you okay? I saw Dad’s car leave earlier.”

“I’m okay. Sarah is here. I-I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Her tone lifts with surprise.

“I’ve been reading the journals. You know the journals?”

“Yes, I remember you writing in them.”

Taking a breath, I focus on trying to take ownership of my past, which is even harder than re-learning how to walk.

“I promised to love you and be a good mom. When you were just a baby.”

“Yes, and you always were. You were the best mom ever.”

“But I haven’t been since things happened, and I’m sorry.”

A few moments of silence pass, and I wonder if she’s hung up.

“Ember, please don’t worry about that. It’s not your fault at all.”

“I’m not mad about your baby. I just thought you were still the baby. It’s confusing.” I grapple for the right words, which always seem to jumble up when I think too much or feel upset. “But I like you, and I’m happy for your baby. You don’t have to hide anymore. I want to meet her when she comes.”

“Oh.” Her voice crackles just like mine does sometimes. “I’d really like that. Tor and I both would like that. My due date is soon.”

I didn’t go to her baby shower. I watched Asher from the window when he carried presents and balloons across the street to the party. There were lots of cars in their driveway and parked in front of their house—all her closest friends and relatives toting boxes wrapped in shades of pink.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go to your party.” I have no excuse to add. I wasn’t busy or not feeling well that day. I was just afraid of the stares and the questions and the sea of faces I wouldn’t recognize but would recognize me.

I think that’s been one of the hardest parts of this whole situation for me—people looking at me and seeing someone they know, but who really isn’t there anymore. It’s like wearing a mask that, to be honest, I don’t want to wear.