The Maid

My truth is not the same as yours because we don’t experience life in the same way.

We are all the same in different ways.

“They call me a freak.”

“You’re not a freak. You’re just an old soul. And that’s something to be proud of.”

I’ll never understand it—why people find the truth more shocking than lies.

My truth is not the same as yours because we don’t experience life in the same way.
We are all the same in different ways.

Her eyes darted to the pillow on the floor, then away. “Tell me,” she said. “Do you ever feel like the world is backward? Like the villains prosper and the good suffer?”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “I’m used to this feeling. I know what it’s like to be completely invisible, to feel alone in a strange world. To be afraid for the future.”

“Do you ever feel invisible?” I ask. “At work, I mean. Do you ever feel like people don’t see you?”

The longer you live, the more you learn.

People are a mystery that can never be solved.

Life has a way of sorting itself out.

Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.

That’s the trouble with pain. It’s as contagious as a disease. It spreads from the person who first endured it to those who love them most. Truth isn’t always the highest ideal; sometimes it must be sacrificed to stop the spread of pain to those you love. Even children know this intuitively.

We bury the bad memories deep, but they don’t go away. They’re with us all the time.