“Everyone has a story,” she said. “Even I do.”

Mady welcomed the first hint of daylight, the sky slowly lightening from black, to grey, and then to a pale blue that certainly would darken as the day progressed. The fog had pulled back to the ocean well before dawn and not one cloud could be seen in the sky. The crystalline blue above would be a welcome canopy for the woman for she had not slept all night, the hours spiting her like a bad friend. Her mind had twisted minute after minute with muddled memories that took her back in time to places she had hoped to escape forever. Life had not been served up on the proverbial silver platter for Mady Miller. It had been, instead, a struggle from the start. Yet she had gotten this far -- forty years and counting. When she was awake she could push her impoverished childhood aside; she could forget the harassment served up by insensitive students who stalked her schools; she could squash the seemingly unstoppable abuse from a father steeped in anger that was fueled by whiskey as strong and bitter as he was; and she could forget the untimely death of her beloved mother, shrunken to a skeleton before she died of cancer diagnosed too late. The abortion was behind her. The date rape too, stuffed into deep pockets in her weary brain.

No one knew. Mady was sure of that. She functioned beautifully during the day, a smile playing on her lips, a giggle in her voice. Adored by her colleagues, she flipped her jet, black hair, flashed her ebony eyes and honed in on anyone who wanted her help or attention. Listening was her forte and she did it without pretense, giving the gift she had always so wanted herself.

Mady knew. Stored inside everyone was a story. Unlike Mady, though, who harbored life’s journey like a secret, others did not. Instead their emotions tumbled out in irrational, unexpected ways that made the world a messy place sometimes. It was a certainty to keep in mind. She could do that.