My Life Without My Mother

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I believe in appreciating my mother, whether it is by telling her how much I love her or by giving her a shoulder massage after a long day of work. After all, I never know when the world is going to take her away from me. After a hard lesson, I finally recognize the effect she has on me. One afternoon, I am sitting in my couch, watching reruns of “Friends”. I am much younger, maybe fifteen years old and devilishly apathetic. The front door opens, and it is my mother coming back from a twelve-hour shift. She sits down next to me, exhales, and leans her head on my shoulder. She grabs a napkin from her purse and wipes off her sweat. It is incontrovertible that she feels exhausted. Instead of asking if she would like a cold cup of water, I ask her what she is cooking for dinner. She does not hesitate to get up and tells me in a soothing voice “Mole”. It is my favorite Mexican dish; however, there is no chicken. She offers to go to the grocery store to buy some chicken, but I get annoyed and blatantly ignore her generous offer. She manages to shake off my contumacious attitude and reassures me that she will continue to the grocery store. Shortly after, I get a call from my mother—she sounds frightfully distressed, and she wants to let me know that she got in a car accident. I can hear her moaning, and I know that she is not okay. She informs me that she is at the light by the grocery store, a few blocks away from the neighborhood. I have no way of getting to her, but I did not hesitate. Still wearing my pajamas—I ran out the door. I hated this gut wrenching feeling of not knowing if my mother was okay and it caused my heart to rotate in opposite directions. All I could think about was my life without her, and it scares me. It scares me not because I would not have someone to make me dinner, or someone to tell me that they love me. It kills me inside because I would not see her face. I would not see her smile...
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