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Julie: OMG. Don't even. Hypocrite.
Imogen: I just want you to be safe.
Julie: No. You want me to be an innocent flower, same as Mom and Dad, but I'll allow it this time.
Imogen: Next time?
Julie: No dice.
Imogen: You are seeing someone?
Julie: We're only making out. Don't worry.
Imogen: When you say making out…
Julie: None of your business.
Imogen: What about my details?
Julie: I don't act like you're supposed to wait for marriage.
Imogen: It's only 'cause I know how men are. And you're sweet. I'm not.
Julie: Nice save. Almost.
Imogen: I'll stop. I swear.
Julie: I'll believe it when I see it.
Imogen: Okay, go back to bed.
Julie: Go back to your boy-toy. And come early next Sunday to tell me all about it. Okay?
Imogen: Deal.
She's right. I'm not really worried about her making bad choices. I'm worried she's the same as me, going through the same things I did, hiding them the way I do.
But if I can't lead by example, how can I expect her to share? I'm the older one. I'm the mature, responsible one. I'm supposed to be brave, chart a course for her.
But I'm not.
There's too much in my head. There's only one way to handle it.
I pull out my computer, start another blog entry, and write.
I write for nearly an hour. Until a sound upstairs calls my attention.
"Imogen?" Patrick's sleepy voice floats through the space. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just insomnia. The chai always does it."
"Come back to bed."
"I don't want to wake you," I say.
"I'm up." He fights a yawn.
"Are you?"
