Sometimes she had the feeling she hadn't been invited into this or any world. She's been a good girl, partly for the reason that she felt she was a slight imposition on her family--an extra child, but not an extraordinary one.
Out in the world, she felt as many feel--overlooked, ignored, and, if noticed, tolerated.
She wondered what exactly the reason might be for her to have become, to have come into this world. She didn't spend a lot of time puzzling, however. She did her job--which was first of all to be the one person she was given an opportunity to be, herself.
She thought of red as her signature color--in a scarf, a hat, or a pin: some accessory that might murmur, in effect, "I know I'm not terribly interesting, but nonetheless, here I am, with a dash of red."
She lived as best she could, made others feel welcomed, worthy. She knew she hadn't authored reality. She felt reality had been here a long time before she happened along. She'd been a good girl. She became a decent person.
Gloves. Red gloves. A pair of red woolen gloves. These she she wore in colder months.