By Lorana Hoopes Hey guys, I know I normally have someone else’s book here to entertain you, but this one is my book. I wanted to tell you a little about it and of course give you the opportunity to win a kindle because who doesn’t like free, right? I
Micki’s story has been a part of my heart for many years now, and seeing so many people read at least part of my little story (over 1,000 viewed the last chapter I posted, “The Fight”) just means so much to me.
For some context, I started writing this story right after I graduated from college, almost 19 years ago. My father, with whom I was very close, had passed away suddenly one year earlier, shattering my faith, and sending me spiraling into a depression so deep it nearly took my life. Just over a year later, a tragic car accident in the small Kansas town I grew up in took the life of a little boy, and I began to write this story.
I am such a baby.
I can’t believe I wet my bed! I’m ten-and-a-half years old for pete’s sake! Who wets their bed when they’re ten?!?
The first time it happened was the night before last. I didn’t tell anybody. I just pushed my underwear and pajamas down in the hamper, and changed the sheet. But it happened again last night. (I wouldn’t have even written about it now if Kayleigh hadn’t told.)
Mama came into my room to talk to me.
Everyone thinks Isobel’s the strong one, but she’s not.
You see, she left her diary under the trees, in the fort Daddy built there. It was on top of the tree stump in the corner of our fort. I read it when she left it there after she finished her homework. Since we’re home-schooled, the big girls like doing their work by themselves. I know the feeling.
Lately, I go off by myself a lot, too.
I don’t go see the stupid fat guy anymore.
Daddy laughed when I told him I called him that. He didn’t like that guy much either. Mama said it was “disrespectful” but Daddy and I still thought it was funny. I mean the guy tried to get me to say that Daddy hit me, for pete’s sake! Daddy wouldn’t do that. Even when I was giving him the “Silent Treatment” he would never hit or hurt me at all.
I won’t tell on him, but I won’t speak to him either.
I haven’t said one word to my father in three weeks. I thought it would be hard, but it’s not. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been “Daddy’s girl.” I rode with him when he went quoting (that’s when he tells people how much it’ll cost them for their pool), and raced to sit next to him in church. I was his “sidekick”, he always said.