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2005-12-29 | 4:05 p.m.

Unlike me, always confessing, confessing, confessing, my mother buries her pain. Over the years, messages from the depths escape in bitter, gaseous pips and squeaks, but nothing I can map out and make sense of.

So I donít know how it went down, the other great breakup of my life. I was there, but I was little. Cute. There isnít much cuter than a two-year-old. I think I would be hard-pressed to leave my own toddler behind. But I also know how it feels to say to myself, I would give up everything I have to make this stop.

All I know is that my Dad left. Nothing about me or my long-suffering mother could keep him there. Not terribly interesting, damage-wise. You canít spit a pixel in any direction in Diaryland without hitting someone so battered by damage itís a wonder they exist at all. Thereís no comparison.

What is poisoning my mind is the idea that he would rather be with her. That he is mourning the loss of her. He was happy; he was ready to go, he had plans for a new life. When he stayed, it was for the package, the all-inclusive. As Frank put it, he realizes that he stands to lose 'The Family.'

"But what he does not realize is that he would lose you."

So good of Frank to say that. I have always longed to mean the world to someone. Now here I am, nearing third, and it hasnít happened yet. It probably isnít going to happen. All thatís left is to learn how to be truly self-sufficient. Yippee.

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