When I was around 12ish. I had showed up crying at a friends house because things at home were so terrible. The mother took me in and there was lots of fussing over me, trying to comfort me, asking what was wrong, the whole shebang. I couldn't really express what was going on, but I don't think it would have been too hard to put 2 and 2 together. However she called my mom and after talking to her for a couple of minutes she told me it was time for me to go home. Afterall, everyone knows nothing bad ever happens in upper middle class families. I was so scared, she told her eldest son to walk me home. But that was that. No follow up no nothing, it was like the whole episode had never taken place. It was the first time I had ever really reached out for help and it taught me that it doesn't make a difference. People don't care about the sufferings of others if its inconvenient, which is what makes the world such a hard place in my opinion.