Estelle was a very organized person. It brought her peace of mind to see all her tasks laid out in front of her, and joy whenever she took it off the wall to signify it was completed.

So she supposed it made sense: the indescribable feeling of guilt when she didn’t complete a task. There was only one post-it left on the wall. Hypothetically, it should be easy. It should be easy to complete a simple task. She stared at it longer and longer.

She initially wrote down the task to get out of her comfort zone and gain some inspiration. As a failing author, she needed new ideas for her book — she desperately needed new ideas. She was falling behind more and more with rent and had to survive on one meal a day. At the thought, her stomach let out a grumble.

It should be easy. All she had to do was step outside.

Taking a deep breath, she walked to her front door. Multiple padlocks lined against the edge of the rotting wood which creaked horrifying noises when she opened it. Fresh air bursted inside the house; it was invigorating, but she didn't let that distract her.

None of her neighbors were outside yet — a small mercy. One step in front of the other, she walked to the house on the end of the road. The house where her son lived. It was a pretty house and even more colorful than she remembered it to be. She thought she could hear joyous laughter inside. One that sounded like a little kid. For a moment, her happiness overwhelmed her and before she knew it, she was outside his door, knocking.

Her son opened the door; it took everything within Estelle to not jump into his arms and embrace him with everything she had. Her son, Josh, looked considerably older but his wrinkles soon grew more pronounced until Estelle realized he was angry.

Ah. It was what she was afraid of. She didn't get to say a single word before the door was slammed in her face. "Get out of here, you ugly freak," her son shouted through the barrier.

She ran all the way back home. Her vision blurred but she could still see the ugly marks laden across her wrinkly, spotted skin. She could see her distorted, runny face on the reflection of the padlocks as she locked them in turn.

Her tears refused to stop as she jumped in her bed and wrote and wrote. Wrote about the ugliness of society. How they treat those that are different. How everyone is the worst. It felt as if her heart was about to burst from the hatred and the pain.

What a great book it was going to be. And she was right.

The money flew in by others feeling the same way. Others that have been abandoned by society. they sought refuge in her books and she gave it to them. Nobody listened to them — no one except her.

She ignored the kind words that always arrive through mail. No. Pain makes the best books. And she was so grateful for her son, the only one who had ever hurt her feelings.