May, a 100-word story

She was only 18 years old, and I, twenty-three.

I had worked my way up to become one of the youngest journalists in the country.

But I have to say that all I wanted to do was hide my face when she told me her story.

“So why are you here?” I asked.

“My mother sold me. We didn’t have enough money,” she whispered back.

“Are you angry at her for doing that?”

She shook her head. “No.”

In that moment, everything I had ever stood for, everything I thought I knew, had come crashing down.

I picked up my pen.