I wish Syl hadn’t said anything about my diary. I can’t blame Matt for telling her about it, but I really wish he hadn’t.
I’m writing this entry in the kitchen, using one of the flashlight pens Jon found for me. Mom’s asleep in the sunroom, not that it ever mattered before. I’ve written in my diary with her in the room for months now, her and Matt and Jon. But even though I know Syl’s upstairs in Matt’s room, probably asleep also, I still feel like everybody’s looking over my shoulder.
Last summer, Dad and Lisa were here, on their way out west. With six of us in the house, I felt more private than I do right now, with just three of us here.
Not that I have anything to write, except to say these diaries are mine, for my eyes only.