I think Mother believes that Margot and I have a better relationship with our parents than anyone in the whole wide world,
and that no mother is more involved in the lives of her children than she is.
She must have my sister in mind, since I don't believe Margot has the same problems and thoughts as I do.
Far be it from me to point out to Mother that one of her daughters is not at all what she imagines.
She'd be completely bewildered, and anyway, she'd never be able to change;
I'd like to spare her that grief, especially since I know that everything would remain the same.
Mother does sense that Margot loves her much more than I do, but she thinks I'm just going through a phase.
Margot's gotten much nicer. She seems a lot different than she used to be.
She's not nearly as catty these days and is becoming a real friend.
She no longer thinks of me as a little kid who doesn't count.
It's funny, but I can sometimes see myself as others see me.
I take a leisurely look at the person called “Anne Frank” and browse through the pages of her life as though she were a stranger.
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