It Ends with Us

wasn’t
.
My Ellen Diaries.
I run my hands over them. There are three of them in this box, but I’d
say there are probably eight or nine total. I haven’t read any of these since
the last time I wrote in them.
I refused to admit that I kept a diary when I was younger because that
was so cliché. Instead, I convinced myself that what I was doing was cool,
because it wasn’t technically a diary. I addressed each of my entries to

---

Ellen DeGeneres, because I began watching her show the first day it aired
in 2003 when I was just a little girl. I watched it every day after school and
was convinced Ellen would love me if she got to know me. I wrote letters to
her regularly until I turned sixteen, but I wrote them like one would write
entries in a diary. Of course I knew the last thing Ellen DeGeneres
probably wanted was a random girl’s journal entries. Luckily, I never
actually sent any in. But I still liked addressing all the entries to her, so I
continued to do that until I stopped writing in them altogether.
I open another shoebox and find more of them. I sort through them
until I grab the one from when I was fifteen years old. I flip it open,
searching for the day I met Atlas. There wasn’t much that happened in my
life worth writing about before he entered it, but somehow I filled six
journals full before he ever came into the picture.
I swore I’d never read these again, but with the passing of my father,
I’ve been thinking about my childhood a lot. Maybe if I read through
these journals I’ll somehow find a little strength for forgiveness. Although
I fear I’m running the risk of building up even more resentment.
I lie back on the couch and I begin reading.
Dear Ellen,
Before I tell you what happened today, I have a really good idea for a new
segment on your show. It’s called,
“Ellen at home.”
I think lots of people would like to see you outside of work. I always wonder what
you’re like at your home when it’s just you and Portia and the cameras aren’t
around. Maybe the producers can give her a camera and sometimes she can just
sneak up on you and film you doing normal things, like watching TV or cooking or
gardening. She could film you for a few seconds without you knowing and then she
could scream,
“Ellen at home!” 
and scare you. It’s only fair, since you love
pranks.
Okay, now that I told you that (I keep meaning to and have been forgetting) I’ll
tell you about my day yesterday. It was interesting. Probably my most interesting day
to write about yet, if you don’t count the day Abigail Ivory slapped Mr. Carson for
looking at her cleavage.
You remember a while back when I told you about Mrs. Burleson who lived
behind us? She died the night of that big snowstorm? My dad said she owed so much
in taxes that her daughter wasn’t able to take ownership of the house. Which is fine

---

by her, I’m sure, because the house was starting to fall apart anyway. It probably
would have been more of a burden than anything.
The house has been empty since Mrs. Burleson died, which has been about two
years. I know it’s been empty because my bedroom window looks out over the
backyard, and there hasn’t been a single soul that goes in or out of that house since I
can remember.
Until last night.
I was in bed shuffling cards. I know that sounds weird, but it’s just something I
do. I don’t even know how to play cards. But when my parents get into fights,