The man was tall and broad chested. At the end of his bulging arm he waved a piece of paper.
“I’m an expert,” he shouted, “and you can’t write that. Your words make it worse. People need love not judgment.”
He tore the paper into shreds and dropped it on the floor.
The woman was blonde and pretty. She held a piece of paper between delicate fingers accentuated by soft pink nail polish.
“I’m a mother,” she said, “and you can’t write that. You must be stupid if you feel that way. I watch my daughter struggle every day so I know you’re wrong.”
She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it in the corner.
The man was lean, his face weathered by the sun. The piece of paper he held in his hand was folded into an origami bird.
“I keep it with me always,” he whispered, tears glistening in his eyes. “I’ve talked to the experts, I’ve seen the look of concern on my family’s face, but these words are what keep me alive.”
So I smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and took out my pen.