At the end of the class, Mr. Smith announced our assignment for the next Monday was to talk about someone we were grateful to instead of a book report. Upon hearing it, I couldn’t help complaining to Mareya that I was so nervous about having to talk in front of the whole class.

“You've been in at least three plays,” Mareya pointed out. “If you don’t get stage fright in front of those big audiences, why are you bothered by a few kids in our class?”

It was true, but in a play you were part of a group. I shook my head. Plus, there were so many people I was grateful to. There was no way I could possibly pick just one. Plus, even if I picked one, I’d have no idea what to say. Plus, even if I figured out what to say, I was a million-percent positive I’d mess up if I tried to say it out loud! I'd be standing there with everyone staring at me, waiting for words to come out of my mouth. “Oh, my goodness!” I pulled my sweatshirt hood (兜帽) over my face, put my hands over my ears and said, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

But one thing about really good friends who knew you really well was that they didn’t always do exactly what you asked them to. Mareya could be pretty pushy talking of being helpful. She scribbled (潦草地写) something on a piece of paper, lifted my hood, and smiled. She'd drawn a funny elephant with the word BREATHE coming out of its trunk.

“This is Franky, the ‘everything's going to be all right’ elephant.” Mareya giggled. She held the picture up to her ear and asked, “What’s that you say, Franky? You think my friend Arizona should come over to my house this weekend so we can work on our talks together?” And that was exactly what happened.

Monday came and finally it was my turn to talk about who I was grateful to.

Can you imagine how surprised Mareya was when she heard her name was mentioned?

When I was little, I lived in a house with a beautiful garden full of all kinds of Bowers. There was nothing I enjoyed more than sitting in the garden with my mother reading stories to me. When I was old enough to read, I enjoyed reading stories aloud to her.

I would never forget one day when I was in the third grade. I bad been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had rehearsed (排练) my lines so hard with me. But however easily I acted at home, the moment I stepped on stage, every word disappeared from my head. Finally, my teacher took me aside, explaining that she had written a narrator’s (解说员) part to the play, and asked me to change roles. Her word, kindly expressed, still hurt, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.

I didn’t tell my mother what had happened when I went home after school that day. But she sensed my pain. Instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to take a walk in the garden.

It was May and roses were blossoming and, under the trees, we could also see yellow dandelions (蒲公英) in the grass, as if a painter had painted our garden with red, yellow and green. I watched my mother casually bend down by one dandelion. ”I think I’m going to dig up all these weeds,” she said, pulling it up by its roots. ”From now on, we’ll have only roses in this garden. ”

“But I like dandelions,” I protested, “All flowers are beautiful-even dandelions.” “Yes, every flower is beautiful in its own way, isn’t it?” she asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over. “And that is true of people too,” she added. “Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.” Relieved that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled to me gently.

Para 1: “But you will be a beautiful narrator,” she said.

Para 2: After the play, I took home the flower.

Jack threw the papers on my desk, glaring at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He jabbed (戳) a finger at the proposal. “Next time you want to change anything, ask me first.” he said, and then walked away, leaving me in anger.

How dare he treat me like that, I thought. I had just changed one long sentence, and corrected grammar, something I thought I was supposed to do as a secretary.

I hadn’t been warned like this before. Other women who had worked my job before me called Jack names I couldn’t repeat. One coworker took me aside the first day. “He’s personally responsible for two different secretaries leaving the company.” she whispered.

As the weeks went by, I grew to dislike Jack. His actions made me question much that I believed in—We should learn to forgive people who hurt us badly, not adopting the way of an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.

One day, his another behavior left me in tears. I stormed into his office, prepared to let him know how I felt—even if it meant I would lose my job. I opened the door and Jack glanced up. “What?” he asked abruptly.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do. “Jack, the way you’ve been treating me is wrong. I’ve never had anyone speak to me that way. It’s wrong.” I said. “All men are created equal. As colleagues, we should respect each other. But here I want to make a promise. Though you are unfriendly to me, I will treat you as you deserve to be treated, with respect and kindness.” I left his office then.

Jack avoided me the rest of the week. Proposals and letters appeared on my desk while I was at lunch, and my corrected versions were not seen again.

Not long afterwards, I was sent to hospital because of a severe disease.

I reached out my hand and whispered, “Thank you.”

Perri Klass and her mother, Sheil a Solomon Klass, both gifted professional writers, prove to be ideal co-writers as they examine their decades of motherhood, daughterhood, and the wonderful ways their lives have overlapped（重叠）.

Perri notes with     1     how closely her own life has mirrored her mother’s: both have fulltime careers; both have published books, articles, and stories; each has three children; they both love to read. They also love to travel ---- in fact, they often take trips together. But in truth, the harder they look at their lives, the more they acknowledge their big     2     in circumstance and basic nature.

A child of the Depression（大萧条）, Sheil a was raised in Brooklyn by parents who considered     3     a luxury for girls. Starting with her college education, she has fought for everything she’s ever accomplished. Perri, on the other hand, grew up     4     in the New Jersey suburbs of the1960s and 1970s. For Sheila, wasting time or money is a crime, and luxury is     5     while Perri enjoys the occasional small luxury, but has not been successful at trying to persuade her mother into enjoying even the tiniest thing she likes.

Each writing in her own unmistakable voice, Perri and Sheil a take turns     6     the joys and pains, the love and bitterness, the minor troubles and lasting respect that have always bonded them together. Sheil a describes the adventure of giving birth to Perri in a tiny town in Trinidad where her husband was doing     7     fieldwork. Perri admits that she can’t sort out all the mess in the households, even though she knows it drives her mother crazy. Together they compare thoughts on bringing up children and working, admit long-hidden sorrows, and enjoy precious memories.

Looking deep into the lives they have lived     8     and together, Perri and Sheil a tell their mother-daughter story with honesty, humor, enthusiasm, and admiration for each other. A written     9     in two voices, Every Mother Is a Daughter is a duet（二重奏） that produces a deep, strong sound with the experiences that all mothers and daughters will     10     .

That night, I quarreled with my mother, then stormed out of the house. While on the road, I remembered that I did not have any money in my pocket, I did not even take my cell phone with me to make a call home.

At the same time, I went through a noodle shop, and I suddenly felt very hungry. I wished for a bowl of noodles, but I had no money!

The seller saw me standing before the counter and asked, “Hey little girl, you want to eat a bowl?”

“But … but I do not carry money …” I shyly replied.

“Okay, I’ll treat you.” the seller said, “come in, I will cook you a bowl.”

A few minutes later the owner brought me a steaming bowl of noodles. After eating some pieces, I cried.

“What is it?” He asked.

“Nothing. I am just touched by your kindness!” I said as I wiped my tears. “Even a stranger on the street gives me a bowl of noodles, and my mother, after a quarrel, chased me out of the house. She is cruel (残忍的)!!”

The seller sighed, “Girl, why did you think so? Think again. I only gave you a bowl of noodles and you felt that way. Your mother has been taking care of you since you were little, why were you not grateful and why did you hurt your mom?”

I was really surprised after hearing that.

Why did I not think of that? A bowl of noodles from a stranger made me feel grateful, and my mother has raised me since I was little and I have never felt so, not even a little.

Just at that moment, many memories came back into my mind.

When arriving home, I saw my mother sitting at the dinner table, worried and tired.

Growing up, I was always around my grandma Meredith. She was the one who originally inspired my love for cooking and my dream of becoming a chef. Yet, one day I received a text that would turn my whole life around, “Grandma is seriously ill,” the text read, “and we need your help in assisting with her care.”

Without a second of hesitation, I agreed to travel back home. Thankfully, my boss at the restaurant let me take unpaid leave for the next several months so I could come home to help out with Gran. After driving across several states, I finally got back to our family home in West Virginia. Yet, what I saw was really bard for me to bear. The Meredith I saw then was not the lively, joyful Meredith I had seen while I was growing up.

“Tony!” she called to me from her bed, “It’s so good to see you! "

“Gran,” I sighed, “I’m not Tony. That’s dad, your son. I’m Hank.”

This was the start of a months-long journey of helping out around the house-cooking, cleaning, and, most of all, keeping Gran in good health and good spirits.

Every day, I cooked delicious food to keep everyone’s spirits high. But, secretly, I hoped that cooking some dishes that we had made together in my childhood would somehow help get Gran’s memory of me back, if not just for a moment.

Stews (炖菜), chops (排骨), roasts—I served all of these to Gran and my parents around the clock. When I wasn’t taking Gran out for strolls (散步) in her wheelchair or changing her bed sheets, I was cooking. I had cooked for dignitaries (显要人物) and rock stars while at the restaurant in New York City, but never had I poured my heart out into my meals than I did then for Grandma Meredith.

When I was almost at my breaking point, I decided to make something simple.

After taking a few bites, Gran finally called out my name—my actual name.