Page 18 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

And her eldest excels at all he does.

And she sits in the school hall listening to the applause.

Prickles on her skin and shivers down her spine.

As they read all the accolades he’s achieved.

And she says to herself,

that

boy

is

mine.”

He paused. We all paused. He had us in the palm of his hand. We were hanging on his every word.

“Single mothers.

Single fathers.

Families on the bread line.

But they make it matter.

They make it count.

They won’t ever define,

themselves by money or what they own.

Pride lives in their heart.

A jewel that’s home grown.

You see, pride doesn’t mean the same for all.

Pride doesn’t always come after a fall.

You can find it in the little things

It’s there every day.

In a smile, a thank you, a tear you wipe away.

When the gift you bestow on others

is a word of kindness or encouragement.

That means the fucking world when all their life they’ve lived with discouragement.

The smallest gesture that tells someone they fucking matter.

Pride is not the things you have,

it’s the latter.