A Prodigal Daughter’s Journal

They found the journal in the bottom drawer, under a folded hoodie and a pair of worn ballet slippers that still smelled faintly of dust and rosin. It was a simple thing—leather-bound, corners frayed, the pages slightly curled like leaves left too long in the sun. Her name wasn’t on the cover. But anyone who knew Miriam would have recognized her handwriting: loose and restless, like someone always on the verge of running.

She hadn’t meant for anyone to read it. Not ever. Not even herself, if her entries were anything to go by. The first page was dated the week she left home.

January 3

I told him I hated him.

He just stood there. Not angry. Not crying. Just quiet. That made it worse. I wanted a fight, wanted him to slam his hand on the kitchen table and forbid me to go. But he didn’t. Just said, “You know where home is.”

I don’t even know what that means. I know where the house is. I just don’t think I belong in it.

I’m not writing this so I remember. I’m writing it so I forget.

**

The pages that followed didn’t say much. A few lines at a time. Places, mostly. Descriptions. Cities that smelled like gasoline and cinnamon, apartments that echoed too much, parks where she sat on benches long after the sun had gone. There was a boy once. His name barely filled half a line.

But it wasn’t until the tenth page that her voice changed. Not in the writing—but in the ache behind the words.

March 22

I passed a church today. A little one, old bricks and ivy like something out of a dream. The door was open, just a crack. I didn’t go in.

But I stopped.

Why did I stop?

**

April 9

There was music. Inside the church again. I didn’t know the song, but something in it made my throat tighten. A woman was singing like she meant it. Like she knew someone was listening.

**

May 1

Went in.

Sat in the back. No one looked at me. No one asked questions.

There was a verse. I didn’t catch all of it, but it was something like, “He will rejoice over you with singing.”

Why would God sing over me?

**

Her entries slowed after that. Sometimes weeks apart. But each one drew closer to something, like the tide inching in.

June 11

I saw a girl today who looked like me at twelve. Hair in two braids, chipped nail polish. She laughed with her father in the grocery aisle. He ruffled her hair.

I wanted to cry.

I think I miss him.

**

July 4

Fireworks tonight. Loud enough to shake the glass. I used to be afraid of them when I was small. Dad used to let me watch from his truck bed, blanket over my shoulders, his arm a shield.

I didn’t think of that until just now.

Funny, the things we carry.

**

August 12

There’s this verse that keeps following me around. Or maybe I’m following it.

“While he was still a long way off, his father saw him…”

It’s from that story, isn’t it? The boy who wasted everything and still came home.

But it’s always a boy.

What about a girl?

Does the father wait for daughters too?

**

The journal had been filled slowly. Scribbled margins. Tear-stained corners. Pages that smelled faintly of perfume and something bitter beneath. There was no dramatic confession. No great fall. Just a slow unraveling of pride, and a tender thread of grace weaving its way back in.

October 6

Went home.

Not all the way.

Just to the mailbox.

I stood at the end of the driveway like it was a cliff. The porch light was on. Mom’s begonias were still alive. I thought about knocking. I didn’t.

But I picked up the newspaper and left it by the door.

**

November 2

Another Sunday. Another back pew.

They sang “Come Thou Fount” today. That part—“prone to wander, Lord I feel it…” I didn’t sing it. Just mouthed the words.

I feel it every day.

But I also feel Him calling me back.

That’s new.

**

December 18

I called him.

No answer at first. Just the voicemail. I almost hung up.

Then he picked up.

His voice cracked when he said my name.

He said, “Hi, sweetheart.”

I cried for a long time after that. Not because I was sad.

Because I wasn’t.

**

The last entry was shorter than the others. Neater somehow. As if her hand had steadied.

December 25

Home.

He met me at the porch.

Didn’t say much.

Just wrapped his arms around me before I could even knock.

He didn’t ask where I’d been. Didn’t ask what I’d done.

He just said, “I knew you’d come.”

And I finally believed it.

Like that verse I used to whisper: “The Lord is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and rich in love.”

Maybe He sings over daughters too.

Maybe He always has.