Barbara stirs her tea and steels herself before returning to the dining room, mug in hand. She sits, thoughtfully, before the pale blue folder. It glares at her; it dares her.
She sips her tea. Another minute can’t hurt, can it? There’s no one here to witness how much time she takes to find the courage to plunge into the past. It is her past, after all.
She takes a deep breath and almost moves her hand towards the folder, but fails. She surprises herself with the thought, Why couldn’t she just wait until I was dead? And then, in a rush, before that other part of her can interfere, she flips the cover open.