This is just another one of my Covenant stories. Hope you'll read and review.

STILL don't own anything except original stuff.

Friday, November 29, Dr. McAden's office

This is so ridiculous. I'm sitting in the waiting room of a therapist. I don't need a therapist. Anybody with a heart would sympathize with my situation.

My situation? The fact that I'm adopted and I just found out yesterday when my parents let it slip at Thanksgiving dinner. I mean, how could they just let it slip out?

"Pass the mashed potatoes, Delia. By the way, you're not really Delia Jordan. You're adopted."

Okay, it didn't really happen like that, but still. Why didn't they tell me sooner, instead of letting it slip out in front of all their friends (since we don't have any extended family, they invited some of their close friends) at Thanksgiving dinner? I'm almost eighteen. You'd think that they would have told me by now. But, from what I can tell, they had no intention of ever telling me.

After they let it slip out at dinner, I was upset, understandably. So, I went up to my room and locked myself in there. And stayed there until today around noon, when I finally got hungry. That's when my Dad ambushed me and practically forced me into the car saying that they wanted me to talk to a therapist about this, since I was blowing things out of proportion. So what if I didn't want to talk to them about it? So what if I locked myself in my room? Big freaking deal.

The receptionist is calling my name. Some lady just came out looking like a mess. I'm not sure I want to go in there…

Friday, November 29, back in the waiting room

I hate being here. Dr. McAden has no heart either. She practically accused me of being a drama queen. Well, she wasn't the one who was adopted, was she? Whatever.

Where are they anyway? They were supposed to drop Kate and Jack off at the airport and come pick me up. Please don't tell me that they forgot about me…

It's been fifteen minutes, but I'll wait another five before I call them.

It's been another fifteen minutes. They're half an hour late. They're never more than five minutes late, and if they are, they give me a call. But, I tried calling them, and neither are answering their phones. The receptionist is starting to look at me weird, like I'm some kind of psycho… I'll try their phones one more time…

Trying not to start panicking…

Saturday, November 30, under the covers of my bed, 4:00 AM

I think I'm still in shock. My body's numb. None of this is real. It's so cliché, but this feels like a REALLY bad dream.

I can't believe I was so mean and selfish. Why did I have to make such a big deal about being adopted? So what? Lots of people are adopted. McAden's right; I'm a drama queen.

I wish I could take it all back, but it's too late. They're gone. My parents are dead.

I can't believe I just wrote that. I've been cried out since about two, but I'm starting to feel the burning in my nose again. I'd better stop before I drip all over this.

Saturday, November 30, still in bed, 3:00 PM

Haven't been out of bed since yesterday after I found out. Lilly, Mom's best friend, and her husband Michael are staying here, making arrangements and making sure I'm "okay." I hope they don't get the bright idea to send me to McAden's.

Here's an article that I found in the newspaper. When I said I hadn't been out of bed, I wasn't counting the time I went down to grab more tissues. That's when I saw the newspaper and snatched it.

"Friday afternoon a drunk driver collided with another car on Whitmoore Road. The drunk driver only sustained minor injuries. However, Greg Jordan, the driver of the other vehicle, died on impact. His wife, Sara Jordan, was rushed to a nearby hospital, but her injuries were too severe and the resuscitation attempts failed."

Underneath it, there was one of those "Friends don't let friends drive drunk" ads.

Can't believe how they reduced my parents' last moments to a few sentences.

Sunday, December 1, my bed

I don't know what time it is, and I don't really care. Too depressed to write much. The shock is starting to wear off.

Funeral is tomorrow.

I know the format is kind of different... It's like Delia's journal that she's writing in... Anyway, more should be up soon. All I have to do is type it up... In the meantime, review and tell me if you think the format works.