Someone once said, "There are just some wounds that apologies don't heal." In my personal experience, those theoretical wounds aren't external but instead internal. It hurts to be cast off. Ignored as though your existence has no importance and scorned as though you are responsible for some great tragedy.

I promise that I never committed any deed that could be deemed everso appalling that it would cause any people other than my parents to exile me from their presence as soon as they legally could, and so, here we are.

By here, I mean the fact that I am struggling to make enough money to pay my rent each month while my parents and little brother are jetting around the world, traveling from one home to another.

Of course, the only way I am able to keep up with their escapades is from the occasional postcards or emails from Alistair. Due to my parents' obvious distain for me, the emails are always from different email addresses and the postcards from different locations (and never with a return address.)

North Piwest is nothing compared to the exotic locations that Alistair writes to me from, but at least I was able to find a job that almost always pays me enough to pay my rent here. Life as an administrative assistant at an elementary school isn't very glamorous (especially considering most people with this position elsewhere are old enough to be my grandmother), but it was the only thing available when I came to town, and beggars can't be choosers.

Sometimes the kids who are early to school will stand at my desk and talk to me. I can't tell you how many times I've been asked why I am even in North Piwest. Those children have typically been asked by their parents to get the dirt on me since I tend to keep to myself when I'm not at work or the grocery store. 

At least once a week, I brace myself for the inevitable, "How did you end up in North Pie, Miss Van Doven?" I would always respond to them that when I was looking for somewhere to live, I just happened to find my way into town. This answer, of course, would never satisfy the kids, and after a few more polite remarks, they'd walk back to their groups of friends, whispering and giggling for a few moments all the while sneaking glances in my direction. 

On other occasions, parents would just approach me and ask about my past themselves. Typically, their conversations were similar to those of their children, and some of the parents didn't like that. I was once called into the principal's office as a 22 year old because the wealthiest parents in the school district found my presence in town to be discomforting. If that doesn't explain how frightened North Piwestians are of the world outside the town limits, I don't know what will. 

Thankfully, the principal is a fan of mine, because I wasn't given any kind of punishment. It also doesn't hurt that she was also not born and raised in Piwestian culture, but instead married into it. She told me that her response to the family that complained was that their reaction was ridiculous, and that there isn't anything wrong with those who weren't born within the town borders. 

While I don't quite know what they said in response, I assume it had to do with them removing their children from our school and moving them to the town's other elementary school. The reason I assume that is because, less than a week later, their children were unenrolled from the school. 

Outside of work, I keep to myself. The only other place I frequent besides work and my apartment is the grocery store. While the town is definitely large enough in population and size to support one of those big chain grocery stores, once again, the town's culture took precedence over a larger selection of groceries. Instead, we have the Bloor Family's Market where everything is priced at about twice as much as its worth. Due to my very limited list of locations that I visit in town, I consider the market to be the only place in town where I have a friend besides my work "friends." 

Andrew, a "high school senior" and friend of Mr. Bloor's oldest son, is the only person in this town whose immediate reaction to me wasn't automatically hating me because I wasn't born here. Instead, he was kind and even helped me figure out where to go to get an apartment. 

While he calls himself a high school senior, that isn't really the case. The way Andrew tells it is that during his actual senior year, he reached a breaking point and decided to take a break from school until he was finally ready to go back. As he was in the same grade as Mr. Bloor's son, Mr. Bloor gave him a job at the store so he could work in the meantime. Well, Andrew is now 21 and is still working on "recharging his educational batteries." 

I took an immediate liking to him, not only because he was so kind to me, but also because he has a mysterious aura about him. I never thought that "mysterious" would be a trait I would find appealing, but stranger things have happened. 

Every time I walk into the store, while most check to see what goods are on sale for the day, my first action is to look over towards the three registers, and, if I see a head about a foot above the others in that direction, I know it's a good day to go shopping. After locating that familiar head and the body attached to it, I walk from aisle to aisle willing myself to not spend the entirety of my meager paycheck on the overpriced groceries. After talking myself down to only what I need, I get in line at that familiar register and eye the tabloid magazines before it is finally my turn. 

To say that trips to the grocery store have become the best part of my week may sound strange, (but get back to me once you go through a situation like what I have gone through in the past year.) 

Anyway, once it's finally my turn, I finally get a chance to drop my "I'm proud to be an outsider" façade. As he scans the items I have put on the counter, Andrew always makes small talk with me and tells me about things he has read recently. Reading is his favorite hobby, and, every time I talk to him, he has a new recommendation for me. 

If there isn't a line in the store, he and I stand there and talk for as long as we can. Once there is someone behind me in line, we quickly wrap up the conversations and say a rushed goodbye to each other. We always give each other one last smile and nod before I leave the store, and he begins helping the next customer. 

After I leave the store, I always head straight for my apartment (which is only a couple of blocks from the town square.) Before I go into my apartment, I typically check my mail to see if I have any bills or postcards from Alistair. 

Now, all of what I have just told you describes every day I have lived in this town. 

Well, up until yesterday.

From the kids asking why I was in town, to having a nice chat with Andrew cut short, the day seemed to be following the formula for my typical day to a T. 

However, it was when I checked my mail that I saw the letter.

TO: MS. TABITHA LYNN VAN DOVEN

FROM: GRIFFIN, SHAW, AND PEREZ, ATTORNEYS AT LAW