I loved to look at the old photographs, especially the ones with me in them. I suppose that was bad of me, and proved I was stuck on myself or something, but I couldn't help it, the pictures with me in them were just more interesting. Every stage of my life was there, snapped by the camera and stamped on a glossy piece of paper, and it made me feel safe to see myself at three, standing with Donald in front of the house in our matching cowboy and cowgirl outfits, or standing on a chair in front of the kitchen counter, mixing a birthday cake for Mother. The pictures reminded me that I was real, that I always had been real and always would be real, and that I wasn't just some girl someone had made up. What does the story reveal about human character?