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Plus, I don’t even have social media to invite anyone anyway.

Looks like I’ll spend the next two days reading the books I picked up after school when I was supposed to be heading to my imaginary sleepover.

It’s getting harder not to be angry, though. How is it everyone’s moving on but me? Why am I the only one still sad? Is this how I’ll be forever? Angry and sad, with eyes that stay red from crying?

I want more for myself. I want friends and to be happy and to have a life of my own one day. But I just… I don’t know how to get there. I don’t know how to move on, and Ms. Maggie doesn’t seem to know how to help me either.

Maybe I’m just broken. Maybe the part of me that knows how to smile died and was buried right alongside my dad.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

Lost, Nora

Dear Diary,

It only took two months, but Mom finally came clean and admitted she’s been seeing someone.

She also told me he’s invited us over for dinner tonight. Way to give a girl some warning. I guess she thought the element of surprise was the way to go. It’s like she doesn’t know me at all anymore.

I’m like Dad—a planner. Always have been. And Mama knows this. She used to joke around and say our need to know and prepare kept her grounded, that without us she’d just float away.

I’ve gotta think a whole lot before I’m ready to do, and her springing this on me with less than an hour before show time is the worst thing she could’ve done.

Well, that’s a lie. The worst would be her bringing him here with no warning. But this is a close second, and it makes me feel like she doesn’t even care.

If Ms. Maggie were here, she’d tell me to make the best of it. Good thing she’s not because I’d tell Ms. Maggie to shove it.

I guess I’ll be back later with all of the gory details. Wish me luck.

Well, diary, I was right. Tonight was a total disaster. Well, not all of it. But most of it. Mostly because of me.

Mom and I argued the whole way there, which made me cry, because we haven’t really fought about anything since before Dad died. Mainly because I’ve gotten so good at biting my tongue.

But tonight, when she asked me if I was excited to meet Rand and his son, I just couldn’t.

I totally snapped and told her I wasn’t excited and that she should be ashamed of herself for sneaking around the way she did. I told her it was obvious she didn’t care how I felt about it all one way or the other, otherwise she wouldn’t have hidden it from me.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she had to grip the steering wheel really hard to keep us from sliding all over the wet road. She said I wasn’t being fair. I told her she wasn’t either.

I feel bad for making her cry, but come on! Who does that to their kid?

Whatever. I wish I could say that was the worst part, but sadly, it wasn’t.

We bickered all the way up until we got to his house—although it’s more of a cabin, really. And way out in the woods. Like so far away that no one would hear you scream.

Rand, as Mama calls him, was waiting outside for us. I thought he looked mad, but when he came and opened Mama’s door, he was all lovey-dovey and sweet. To her. He completely ignored me. Not that Mama noticed. She was too busy soaking up his affection to even think about me.

Rand’s a big guy. Tall, with dark features and a little gray in his hair. His face looks mean anytime he’s not looking at Mama. Whenever he focuses on her, his hard eyes go all soft and gooey.

I guess as long as he’s nice to her, it doesn’t much matter what he thinks of me. He doesn’t have to like me, because I don’t see myself ever liking him either.

The biggest surprise of the night was that Rand has a son. He’s grown, though, and kind of looks like a superhero. He was nice enough, even if he did call me a pipsqueak.

I wasn’t very nice to him, though, and now I feel awful. He made an effort to talk to me, and I ignored him. I was acting like a total snot. He even caught me when the weather scared me and I tripped. I didn’t even say thanks. I just ran inside and did my best to ignore everyone for the rest of the night.

Atlas—that’s his name, by the way—tried to include me in the dinner conversation, but I didn’t want to talk.

Even worse, I cried over dessert. Rand served banana pudding, which was Dad’s favorite. We used to make it together at least once a month. We tested hundreds of recipes before we found the perfect one.

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