It was just another weekday night. My family had just sat down to eat dinner together, and all was well. The salt and pepper were passed around with melodic precision. Conversations were explored, and I could carve another notch in my belt for a successful family dinner. My father was the primary financial provider for us, and my mother stayed at home keeping the house in order and lovingly addressing my siblings and I's daily needs and struggles. When my father got home from work, we would all gather around the standard dining room table and eat the nutritious meal my mother had created with her skilled Minnesotan abilities. Casseroles and hearty meals were what the menu consisted of to say the least. Even though my family was never financially plentiful, my mother always figured out ways to feed us well. It was a regular occasion for all of us to sit around the dinner table every evening and converse over how our day was. The thing for me is that I do not remember any particular event or outbreak of insanity that negatively scarred me from this tradition. Rather in recent times as I have begun to reflect on my person and why I do what I do, I realized that being the youngest of four siblings I have always craved attention. Whether it is emotional or not, I wanted and still want people to acknowledge my existence and uniqueness. In thinking about those longings, I was drawn back to the dinner table where I felt so small and insignificant, where being the youngest attention rarely seemed in my direction. 

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