Hello. My name is Florence Roberge and I'm eight years old. I've started a diary. I think it's a good idea because I can talk about my friends Emma, Charlie, and Ling. There's also Félix, who comes to play with us even though he's a boy. And I can also talk about my parents. There's Dad, who works in his convenience store. He shows me how the cash register works and makes me laugh. There's Mom, who often gives me lots of kisses and with whom I watch lots of horror movies even though Dad doesn't like them.
Sometimes Mom and Dad get into a huge argument because they talk about me. Dad says I'm weird and that we should have listened to the doctor I saw last year. Mom doesn't agree, says I'm not weird and calls Dad a panaro, or something like that. That's when they argue. I don't understand a word they're saying.
Uncle Hubert told me that no one is allowed to read other people's diaries. That's fun, because I'll be able to write everything down, even the things I'd get told off about if people knew I'd done them. Like what happened when I went to see the dead rat in the trash...
