Three years ago I found a girl who was in Mexican captivity. After that horror she stopped talking. Psychiatrists agreed that it was PTSD. I don't know why I always felt responsible for her. I visited her in orphanage once every few months. She never talked to me.

Today I found out that she is finally leaving noorphanage and will move on to an independent life. I came to make sure she's okay. When I see her leaving the orphanage I get out of the car.

"Och kiddo. Ready for adulthood, aye?"