Dear nineteen-year-old Kellie,
I know you’ve been going through a lot lately. You’ve failed all your classes at university, quit your soldiers training in the Reserve Forces, and now you’re hiding away in the basement of your host family’s house in France crying your heart out. I know it hurts to fail. I know you want to give up and go home, but even home doesn’t understand you, nor have they a place for you.
I see and feel your pain. You have responsibility for someone else’s kids and you’re trying to make it in a culture you don’t understand. You cringe when your host mother reprimands you countless times a day for the smallest mistakes you make. You can never predict when she’s not going to like something you’re doing. She’s your best friend one moment and your enemy the next. Your only escape is either the basement in the laundry room, home to cement walls to bruise your knuckles on, or the bedroom where you lock yourself in to drench your pillow in tears.