“I hated my father for always telling me to be kind, to trust others. He died long before I could tell him how deeply people have disappointed me. My kindness became a wound, an invitation for others to take advantage. People wear their masks so well, living borrowed lives, and I wonder how we can ever tell if someone is truly showing who they are.”

The words in those sentences struck him sharply, as if they knew exactly where his wounds lay. For a moment, he felt as though the writer had endured the same pain he carried. He had encountered so many false faces, endured so much of the same hurt, that he had lost count. And as if offering advice to the writer—or perhaps reminding himself—he murmured his own rule: Never trust completely. Never expect. Always be ready to face reality.

Hidden words