Under a stack of blank tax forms from the fifties sat a small, leather-bound journal with the year 1937 stamped on the spine in faded gold leaf.
My silver charm bracelet clinked against the brass drawer pull as I lifted the book out.
“Martha, put that down,” Clara said, her tape gun squealing as she pulled another strip. “We are keeping the furniture, not the trash. Throw it in the green bin.”
I opened the cover anyway.
On the very first page, my grandfather’s neat, draftsman handwriting laid out the cold winter of 1937.
I turned the pages until I reached July, the month of the naming contest, and my eyes stopped on a name written in dark blue ink.
“Clara, look at this,” I said. “He wrote about a woman named Mary.”
“Who is Mary?” Clara asked, her foot tapping faster against the floor. “We don’t know a Mary. There are no Marys in this family.”
The entry was short: *Mary says the name is simple, but the board wants something grander. I told her we must hold our ground.*
