Critiques? Critisisms? Comment?New Novella! PLEASE SHARE INPUT!!!!!!!!?

Question by Mohamed: Critiques? Critisisms? Comment?New Novella! PLEASE SHARE INPUT!!!!!!!!?
I am writing a novella about an experience I had that changed my life. Any criticisms, critiques, and compliments are welcome. I hope my heart and emotions comes through.
She was the epitome of sadness, her mouth curled slightly into a frown, her eyes looked down in shame, and her hands swirled around in her lap, her mind deep in thought. What had she witnessed, what had she seen, what had she experienced. She was a sad mystery I wanted to unravel and help. I wanted to reach out and give her a hug that would reassure her she would be fine, but I was too shy, and it would be improper.
Her story is what I want to share with you. It is the story of a mystery, I do not know her anymore, I talked little with her, and I knew little about her. Growing up in a shantytown on the outskirts of Casablanca in deplorable conditions is where I imagine she grew up. I am sure she had a TV. Or her community had a TV. For she told me about the previous season of Studio 2M a singing competition held in Morocco. She told me little about her life, but I knew well enough where she came from. I could see it from her eyes, even when she smiled there was something she was holding back. Every time you would offer her something a look of self-doubt about whether or not she should take it swept her frame and shook it.
She was ashamed, ashamed of cleaning up after, cooking for, and serving strangers. She felt demeaned serving us, wishing she could be the one sitting comfortably waiting for her tea and tray of cookies to choose which ones she would like to eat, instead of taking and eating the separate pot of tea, and second assortment of cookies in the kitchen, reserved for the maids.
The first time she walked into my grandmother’s apartment I didn’t understand what she was doing or who she was. I had just arrived myself; I was on vacation in Morocco for three weeks from America. I was going to enjoy the beauty of family and Morocco, and the delicacies that were to be served. I had a big ball of excitement just waiting to burst and have the time of my life. But then, I was distraught and confused, and angry.
Why would my grandmother hire an 11-year-old girl? Who would this girl’s mother let her work for strangers, what was she expecting in return? Who was this girl anyway? And, how long was she to stay?
And then I saw her and he mother. The suitcase neatly situated by the door. The mother and daughter seated closely together on the couch and my grandmother’s maid offering them tea. I saw the way she sat, she was nervous scared, and anxious. She felt ashamed, demeaned, and beneath everyone else in the room. She had no reason to feel this way. She was to work for my grandmother during the summer to make some money for books. She was working for books; she was going to use her money for her education and her mother was sad and felt defeated, and an unworthy mother having to let her daughter work for schoolbooks.
The tears she shed, the hug she clung to, and words she uttered were too precious to be that of a profiteer. She was a mother, who felt sad, and felt as if she was abandoning her child. I was confused about my grandmother’s decision to have the girl work instead of just giving her the money she needed for her books. And then I realized. This was Morocco. This was a country where old traditions and modern facts of life intermingled to form a complicated yet simple society. The old Morocco was blending with the new. Child labor was the old, and the guilt of seeing it happen was the new. After three weeks, or a couple days after my vacation ended and I came back home I got the news that she had decided to go back home, my grandmother gave her the money she was expecting to receive at the end of the summer, and wished her a happy summer. This is the story of the experience I shall never forget. Of three weeks in Morocco, and a few days of them spent learning lessons of a lifetime from an 11-year-old girl named Soukayna.
This is an introduction. I, the author, will not further directly address the audience, I felt it was necessary in this case to do so.

Best answer:

Answer by ~*Bl@ke*~
It’s not bad, I find it quite irritating when the author speaks directly to the reader… “her story is what I would like to share with you” or something like that. It exposes a great weakness on your part.

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