Romans & histoires The Notebook Parents Guide

"I'm sorry for yelling, Izzy. Unfortunately, that notebook is an old diary, and I don't want anyone reading it. It is off-limits, and I would like to keep it that way." "I respect that, but I hope you're going to change your mind someday and show me. Judging from the fact that you're making, that diary has something to do with Rian. Am I right?" "Yes, it is about Rian and me. I think I'll be able to show you, but now is not the right time." "Shyne! Izabela! Your mother and father are waiting for you downstairs! They said they have been waiting for ages, and you need to show yourselves to them this instant."

Ruth whimpered, her backpack half-open in her hands “Have you seen my blue glittery notebook? That’s where I wrote my poems and the preliminary rounds to decide who will be the star of the recital today…!” “I know. It’s in the first drawer of your dresser. I found it yesterday under the car seat when I got back from the restaurant with your father.” I warned, kissing her forehead and straightening her ponytail “Be more careful with that next time, okay?” “Thanks, Mom.” She hugged me around the waist, but strangely, she didn’t seem as happy as I’d hoped about the news of her notebook’s whereabouts “I’m going to… Uh… Get it.”

"My mom is always telling me I need to pay more attention to my surroundings. She's going to have a field day when I tell her about this." "It's fine," I said quickly, crouching down to help retrieve my things. "Really, accidents happen." "No, it's not fine," he insisted, handing me a soggy notebook with an apologetic grimace. "Look at your notes—they're completely soaked. Are these for Professor Nathan’s class? I recognize his handwriting style from the margins." I glanced at the notebook he was holding—indeed, it contained my carefully written notes from yesterday's reading assignment, now smeared and barely legible.

"What about my father's legacy? How do we protect it?" Jeff reached into his jacket, pulling out a worn leather notebook. "Your father kept detailed records of all his dealings, his plans for the future. This notebook contains everything. With it, we can ensure his vision is realized, without Nolan's interference." I took the notebook, the leather cool against my palm. Flipping through the pages, I saw familiar handwriting, notes, and sketches detailing ventures and partnerships. "Why give this to me now?" I asked, looking up. "Because you're ready," Jeff said with a small smile. "And because it's time you took control of your own destiny."

With that in mind, she got up and walked over to a small bookshelf. She pulled out a leather-bound notebook and brought it to Colin. "Daddy, Mommy really does love you. You can read this if you want." Colin paused, looking at her eager expression. He accepted the notebook and noticed how worn it was. "You have to read it, okay?" Sophie said sweetly. Colin already knew Aspen loved him. He didn't need anyone to tell him that. Without much interest, he merely gave a noncommittal hum and didn't bother to open the notebook.

As he pulled the middle drawer too hard, a small, pink spiral notebook slipped out from the back, tumbling onto the floorboards. It was mine. On the cover was a crooked, faded sticker of a cartoon rabbit. Dad’s hand froze mid-air. Mom’s vacant gaze slowly drifted over to it. Dad reached down and flipped open the first page. Written in large, shaky pencil strokes was a single rule: When Leo can't breathe, do not panic. Beneath the words was a crude pencil drawing I had sketched. It showed a small hand placed gently against a baby's back, sliding from top to bottom in a soft, soothing motion.

A deep crack spread across its leather cover. Golden dust began falling from the ceiling. The First Reader finally spoke. His voice trembled. "Do not let him touch the notebook." The boy laughed softly. "I don't need to." "It already belongs to me." At that moment... the silver symbol on the notebook changed. It was no longer glowing. It was breaking apart. Adrian stepped protectively in front of the desk. "Who are you?" The boy's eyes met his. There was sadness within them. Not anger. Not hatred.

"Can I use your notebook?" I looked at my son. At the five year old who had met a stranger at a foundation event on Saturday and was now, on Wednesday, compiling an educational resource for him with the focused dedication he brought to things that mattered to him. I thought about the letter in the envelope on the table. I thought about Adrian on the atrium floor, malachite in hand, listening to Noah explain the philosophy of fossils with the full and undivided attention of someone hearing something important for the first time.

Ava reached for her phone. Then typed carefully. What matters is what we do now. Adrian read the message. Then smiled faintly. A tired smile. Yet a genuine one. Because she was right. As usual. The past could not be changed. Only understood. Only learned from. Only confronted. The following morning brought a welcome distraction. Nova. Naturally. Interesting. Very interesting. The child entered the kitchen carrying a notebook. A serious notebook. The kind that suggested serious intentions. A dangerous combination. Ava immediately became suspicious.