The woman, my mother, cultivated a policy of saying nothing to me, while sharing and giving everything, including my belongings, to the other two girls. Aware, the boys and girls also helpted themselves to what they wanted without thought of asking or recompense when damaged. Since I was somehow unsuspecting and blindly oblivious to her strategy and to the existence of the more prioritized and informed subgroup I remained convinced that frequent visits, inquiries and conversations would somehow trigger an ebb and flow of the type of running data and connectivity familiar in a family unit. This was not to be and, if anything, evolved into a running joke that only one party really knew what was being perpetrated. (Perhaps causing just a little bit of confusion and pain was one precious joy that she could allow herself to revel in unbeknownst to anyone else). Finally after several seemingly innocuous post omission confessions I realized I was neither wanted nor welcome in my own family and made efforts to find another place where, rather than assuming that as an equal member of a family I was therefore equally informed and privy, I could be certain that I belonged in the manner that one should hope. Without the grating shocks of discovery that ensued amidst the regular as rain sequences that commenced with a mental search, the apparent absence of any logical or voluntary explanation and then what could only be described as an excruciatingly exasperating diminishment of self when the realization that betrayal, or that another silent appropriation has occurred, dawns.