My parents came to visit this past weekend. There was some conference in town my dad had to attend, and it was a great chance for me to see them even though we had just crossed paths at my brother, B’s, wedding two weeks earlier. And the best part? I spent part of Father’s Day with my dad. I hadn’t done that in years.
While they were here mom and I had a chance to catch up (though the phone does a great job of that), and she handed me a diary. She said she found it and thought I would want it. I looked at it and didn’t recognize it. I remember all my unfinished diaries. This wasn’t one of them, and I told her. I kept it, and she said she would send me the other one.
Well today I decided to break into the diary. By break in I mean it’s one of those old ones with a tiny lock that uses a tiny key that disappeared years ago. I had one of those too, but I’m pretty sure I have that one in my posession. I hope…
So I manage to open this book, and it only has one page written in it. One. And I was right. It’s not mine. I skim it, and I nearly break into tears because it’s about me! I’m such a horrible sister for even glancing at this one written page. I’ve tresspassed on something I should never have read. Never!
I blame my mother.