I was born the fourth daughter out of six, count ‘em six girls. I must say, with extreme delight that I was the black sheep of the family – the trouble maker – the one who got blamed for everything. That was what I was labeled, so I lived it to the best of my ability.
Even in all my humility and pride (isn’t that an oxymoron?) at being the greatest black sheep ever, I always protected the fifth daughter born. The one who was special. The one who caused my mother to go into a deep depression. The one who needed all the attention. She was the one who was born with a mental handicap.
She was different. She looked different and as she grew older, her speech was glaringly different.
Back in the days when she was born, the professionals said she should be institutionalized…
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