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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3 . My son Nile has left for university. Even Mother seldom _________ now that her grandchild is no longer around. My home has become so _________ in less than one month.

As a concerned mother who had little to do, I _________ Nile whenever I could. At first it was through emails. Occasionally I _________ the page of the university to learn about Nile’s campus life, and was filled with _________ to see his greetings: “Hi, Mum! So you’re on the net as well!” Since then I’ve been visiting the website regularly hoping to _________ my child.

Recently, our communicating way had another _________. Nile sent me all kinds of articles through instant messaging: novel, modern, funny... I read them _________, like a well-behaved pupil. Meanwhile, I had _________ feelings about that. The kid was __________ to learn something from me not that long ago, but he now becomes my teacher! After __________, I responded with the following email:

“Thank you, my son, for all interesting articles, though I feel confused about the change of our __________. Despite that, I’ll take it as a loving son’s __________ of his mother. He must be thinking his mother is still young and __________ enough to accept new things. That makes me feel proud.” Now in this way we share ideas, with the instant messages __________ each other.