Stories about Her

It was many years before I found the nerve to admit to myself, that I was nothing more than a bastard child, born from a womb unloved. Once accepted, I no longer wondered why no one ran to my rescue when I became the punching bag of the woman who raised me. Or how the fingerprints of a pedophile's touch could go undetected by the most common passerby. No. I did not wonder these foolish things anymore. For the years had proven to me that caring, was only a passion for those who would be rewarded. -FROM THE PREFACE