The telephone on my desk rang. I answered and was informed that I had a visitor. I asked for the person’s name and not recognizing it, asked to speak to the individual.
“I read your article in your Chronicles and I don’t want to end up like that girl,” a woman’s voice said quietly on the line.
She was referring to last week’s column where I shared some of the experiences of an HIV positive 22-year-old mother of three who was put out by her father and had nowhere to live.
I agreed to see the young woman. She entered my space, took a seat, crossed her legs, fixed her top as if she was attempting to hide the leggings she was wearing and looked me straight in the eyes.