Dear Diary

March 3rd

Dear Diary,

I don't know why I'm writing tonight. Maybe it's because the walls feel too close or because dinner was another silent movie. Or maybe because I’m tired of pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not.

When you’re a kid, you look at your parents and you think they’re superheroes. Indestructible. Perfect. Then you get older, and it’s like seeing the cracks in a glass you’ve been drinking from for years. You wonder how you didn’t notice before.

Take Dad. Everyone thinks he’s the cool dad — the one who jokes around and slaps backs at barbecues. He laughs the loudest. People love him. But at home, he’s tired. He gets this look when he thinks no one’s watching, like carrying all of us is this invisible weight on his back.

And when something breaks — a bill, a leak, an argument — he doesn’t laugh. He shuts down. His anger is quiet, but heavy, like a storm you can feel before it hits.

Then there’s Mom. God, I love her, but sometimes she feels a million miles away. She’s the organizer, the fixer, the one who holds the house together with schedules and sticky notes.

But she’s brittle, like a paper crane trying not to get wet.

When I was little, she used to sing while she cooked. Now, the kitchen's silent except for the click of the clock and the hum of the fridge. I think she’s tired too — not just of work or errands — but of pretending she’s okay. Of pretending she's happy carrying everything for everyone.

And my sister, Mia. She’s twelve and thinks she’s invisible. She hides in her room most days, nose buried in books or scrolling her phone until her thumbs must be numb.

She was so loud once — you couldn’t walk past her without getting roped into some wild adventure involving forts made of blankets and dramatic pirate voices.

Now, when she smiles, it’s small and guarded, like she’s afraid smiling too wide might break her open.

And then there’s me.

Sixteen. Old enough to see everything, too young to fix any of it.

I’m the "easy one," they say. "The good kid." Good grades, no trouble, always polite. But they don’t see the way my stomach twists when the house feels too quiet, or the way my chest tightens when Dad slams a cabinet a little too hard. They don’t know how I lie awake at night thinking about how fragile all of this feels — like one wrong move and it could all shatter.

It’s like we're all standing in the same house, but in different rooms with the doors closed, pretending we don't hear each other crying.

March 10th

Dear Diary,

Today, Mia dropped her glass of milk at dinner.

It slipped from her hand and shattered on the tile, milk splashing everywhere. She froze — looked so scared, like she thought the world was about to end.

Dad jumped up, fists clenching — and for a second, I thought he might yell.

But then something strange happened.

He sank down onto the floor next to her and just... started picking up the pieces. Quietly. Carefully. His hands were shaking.

"I’ll clean it," Mia whispered, but he shook his head.

"It’s just a glass," he said. His voice cracked on the word *glass*.

Mom knelt down too. Wiped the milk with trembling hands. I think — no, I know — she was crying, though she pretended it was from the effort.

And me? I just sat there, fork halfway to my mouth, like an idiot, feeling like I was watching a scene I wasn’t supposed to see.

Maybe... maybe the broken glass wasn’t the only thing cracking tonight.

Maybe it was okay to break sometimes.

March 22nd

Dear Diary,

I had this crazy thought today while walking home from school.

Maybe we’re all a little broken.

Maybe that’s what family *is* — a bunch of broken people who somehow still choose to sit at the same table, night after night, trying to figure it all out.

I thought about Dad, how he carries guilt like bricks in his pockets. About Mom, how she’s so good at taking care of everyone else she forgot how to take care of herself. About Mia, trying so hard to be invisible because she thinks being seen will make her a target.

And about me. About how I act like I have it all together when really, I’m terrified every single day.

And yet...

We still come home.

We still sit together — maybe not laughing like we used to, but *together*.

We still keep trying.

There’s a weird kind of strength in that.

April 5th

Dear Diary,

Tonight after dinner, something incredible happened.

Dad sat on the couch with this exhausted look, and Mia tiptoed in with her book. Instead of disappearing to her room, she sat next to him. Close enough that their arms touched.

He blinked at her like he couldn’t believe she was there.

Then Mom came in, carrying a basket of laundry. She stopped when she saw them, a softness blooming on her face. She set the basket down and — for the first time in forever — sat on the floor, leaning against Dad’s legs.

I didn’t know what to do at first. Part of me wanted to run — to escape before it all cracked apart again. But another part... a stronger part... walked into the room.

I sat down next to Mia.

She leaned into me without a word.

Dad let out this long, shaky sigh, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

We didn’t say anything. We just sat there.

Breathing the same air. Feeling the same tired, aching hope.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t a Hallmark movie with music swelling and hugs all around.

But it was real.

And maybe — maybe that’s enough.

April 10th

Dear Diary,

I think I’m starting to understand something.

Strength isn’t about never breaking.

It’s about *choosing* to pick up the pieces, over and over, even when your hands are shaking.

It’s about forgiving the flaws — in yourself, in the people you love — and loving them anyway.

It’s about showing up. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.

My family’s messy.

We’re cracked and tired and stubborn.

But we’re here.

And somehow, that makes us strong.

So tonight, I’m putting the pen down with a little more hope than yesterday.

Goodnight, Diary.

Thanks for listening.