The Day Mother Cried

Coming home from school that dark winter’s day so long ago, I was filled with anticipation. I had a new issue of my favorite sports magazine under my arm. Dad was at work, my sister was away, and Mother wouldn’t be home from her new job for an hour.

I was shocked into stillness by what I saw . Mother pulled into a tight ball with her face in her hands. She was crying. I had never seen her cry.

I approached cautiously and touched her shoulder. “Mother?” I said. “What’s happened?”

She took a long breath and managed a weak smile. “It’s nothing, really. I’m going to lose this new job. I can’t type fast enough.”

“But you’ve only been there three for days,” I said. “You’ll catch on.” I was repeating a line she had spoken to me a hundred times when I was having trouble learning or doing something important to me. She sobbed in silence .

I felt helpless and out of place. At the age of 16 I still assumed Mother could do anything. To provide enough income for my college two years later, Mother was crazy for ways to save money.

A few months ago, Mother arrived home with an old typewriter. It skipped between certain letters. “That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, immediately after dinner, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight. On Monday, she got a job as a typewriter at a radio station. I was not the least bit surprised but she was excited. But on Tuesday Mother looked drawn. I didn’t care honestly.

My shock and embarrassment at finding Mother in tears on Wednesday showed how little I understood the pressures on her. Sitting beside her on the couch, I began very slowly to understand.

“I guess we all have to fail sometimes,” Mother said quietly. I could sense her pain. I reached out and put my arms around her.

A week later Mother took a job selling dry goods at half the salary the radio station had offered. “It’s a job I can do,” she said simply.

But the evening practice routine on the old green typewriter continued.

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The old green typewriter sits in my office now, unrepaired.

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