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.