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He hesitated and said, "Call me before you go." I said okay.
The diary took me four days to finish.
It was both thick and thin — thick because she had poured so much into it; thin because it recorded Evelyn's brief life.
We were a single-parent family.
Our mother's control ruined our childhood — endless scolding, punishments and insults.
In that pain, Evelyn and I were each other's salvation.
She wrote tons about her Little Luna. Even when I went to college she kept writing about me — whether I was warm enough, eating properly, if I was taking care of myself.
She met Mark — they were in love, but our mother disapproved, forced them apart, shamed her as a slut for moving in with him.
Evelyn hid it. The diary ended seven days before she jumped.
Mother found out about Mark; she raged and humiliated Evelyn in public, tore them apart, dragged her home.
The last lines of the note were blurred by tears. She wrote: "I can't hold on. Sorry."
