One day, a woman gazed silently at a black and white photograph of a little girl kneeling in the snow.

“Her name is Tina,” said the man who had handed her the picture. “She’s seven years old.   I love my daughter more than anything, but I can’t keep her. My wife…she isn’t Tina’s mother,   you know? She hates having a reminder around of my other marriage. I had to send Tina back to my cx-wife. to keep her cafe”

“But Tina’s mother hasn’t had Tom with her for your; she’s married now with two kids and she... well. she’s mutationally manic in deal with another one. You see?” He swallowed hard before adding. “My daughter need a home.”

The woman handed the photograph to her husband, when look it and audited it for several minutes before giving it back with a small smile He said. “Well. honey, what do you think?”

The woman looked into the eyes of the little girl’s father “Yes,” she said “We’ll take her.”

The little girl in the photograph was me. And the common when degreed to open her heart and home to a child she’d never met was my new mother. My new father, of course, played an important, loving part in this decision. but it was my mother who was willing to take on the full-time, thankless, and often heartbreaking care of a previously abused child. Loving me would be a challenge for hot from the very beginning.

In the first place, I didn’t want to be there. I was heartbroken at being taken away from my father. Moreover, I had a natural distrust of women. The two in my life so far had either abandoned me or beaten me. In my mind, why should this new one be any different?

I bonded with my new father quickly. But my mother was the one to deal with a bitter.   confused little girl. I tested my new mother’s love from time to time.

One day, when we ate out, I made a noise on purpose.

However, my mother didn’t give up.

Everyone has a hero — someone he admires, who has had an impact on his life. My brother, John, is my hero. He is the most sympathetic, sweet and funny person I have ever met. John is also mentally handicapped (智障的) and has a developmental disability known as autism (自闭症).

I used to be ashamed of John when I was little. When he first started talking, he had a hard time with pronunciation and understanding the meaning of words. He called me May-Me for most of my childhood because he could not pronounce Amy. As John grew older, his language ability gradually increased. I went from May-Me to Amy, and hammer burgers became hamburgers.

When I was younger, I was embarrassed by John. He used to run around in stores talking to himself, flicking his ears and putting his hands in his mouth. He had a hard time swallowing and would have drool (流口水) running down his face. John was very loud, and it seemed to me that he would always find the quietest moments to talk.

All I ever wanted was a normal brother. I would look at other brothers and sisters, see their relationships and turn green with envy. Why did my brother have to be so different? I was very self-conscious of what people thought. I felt as if the entire world was laughing at me because of the way John was acting. I was utterly offended at times that I could not have a normal brother.

The siblings of an autistic child can have many reactions to the amount of attention the autistic child receives. Some feel as if they are not receiving enough attention and may become superachievers to get their share. I hate to admit it, but I definitely fall into this category. I feel the need to excel (突出) in everything I do. I cannot help but think that this comes from having a disabled brother.

John has changed significantly over the past eighteen years.

As I grow older, I’m no longer ashamed of my brother; instead, I am ashamed that I used to be.

A Chair for My Mother

My mother works as a waitress in the Blue Tile Diner. After school sometimes I go to meet her there. Then her boss Josephine gives me a job too. When I finish, Josephine says, “Good work, honey,” and pays me. And every time, I put half of my money into the jar (罐子).

It takes a long time to fill a jar this big. Every day when my mother comes home from work, I take down the jar. My mama empties all her change from tips for me to count. Then we push all of the coins into the jar.

Sometimes my mama is laughing when she comes home from work. Sometimes she’s so tired she falls asleep while I count the money. Some days she has lots of tips. Some days she has only a few. Then she looks worried. But each evening every single shiny coin goes into the jar.

We sit in the kitchen to count the tips. Usually Grandma sits with us too. Often she has money in her old wallet for us. Whenever she gets a good bargain (划算的交易) on tomatoes or bananas or something she buys, she puts by the savings and they go into the jar.

When we can’t get a single other coin into the jar, we are going to take out all the money and go and buy a chair. Yes, a chair. A wonderful, beautiful, fat, soft armchair for Mama and Grandma. When Mama comes home, her feet hurt. “There’s no good place for me to rest my feet,” she says. When Grandma wants to sit back and cut up potatoes, she has to get as comfortable as she can on a hard kitchen chair.

So that is how come Mama brought home the biggest jar she could find and all the coins started to go into the jar.

Now the jar is too heavy for me to lift down.

Finally we find the chair we are all dreaming of.

“Will you do me a favor, Achenyo?” Mama called as she looked up from her weaving. Beside her was a pile of wild-grass stalks (秆). Mama took a stalk, laid it along the length of the half-finished bag, and began to weave (编织). In the corner were pots of dyes (染料) she’d use to paint the finished bags. “Will you get me some water for the dyes?” “Of course, Mama!” Achenyo picked up a pot as she ran outside. She didn’t like weaving, although it was a tradition for a mother to pass on the trade to her daughter. Outside, Achenyo called to her neighbor Ajuma. Both girls, with pots balanced on their heads, made their way to the river.

Achenyo and Ajuma soon arrived at the water’s edge, and they found a huge surprise. The river was gone! In its place was a blanket of dark green leaves and lavender-colored (淡紫色的) flowers. “Oh no!” Achenyo cried. “Mama won’t have water to mix the dyes for her bags.” When the adults arrived at the riverbank, they shook their heads, saying “They’ve struck again!”

Last year, the rainy season had brought an invasion (入侵) of water hyacinths. The plants had covered the river and left no room to dip a pot to get water. And now they were back. The adults walked into the water. They began pulling up water hyacinths and throwing them onto the riverbank. When they’d cleared enough plants, the girls filled their pots with water. A pile of water hyacinths lay on the riverbank. What a shame to waste such pretty flowers, Achenyo thought. She picked some for Mama, and then the girls headed home. Each day, they found the river covered by water hyacinths as if no one had cleared the waterfront (水边地) the day before. To fill their pots, they again had to pull up and throw water hyacinths onto the riverbank. The pile on the sand grew taller.

One day, as Achenyo moved an armful of dried water hyacinths out of her way, she had an idea. Carrying the plants under her arm, she ran home.

“Mama, will you teach me to weave?” asked Achenyo eagerly.

One afternoon, Achenyo held up her finished work made from water hyacinths.

We had just relocated to Germany and moved into a big and old country house with a mysterious abandoned wine cellars (地窖), which my husband warned me many times not to explore without him. After settling down, we began slowly releasing our large family of rescue cats and dogs into the woods behind our house so that they could get used to the area and venture out on their own. So, it wasn’t long before we gained a reputation for having lots of rescue animals with us in the neighborhood.

One day, the doorbell rang and I was sure some of my Christmas packages had arrived. I ran to the door and swung it open, but no one was there. I sensed something and looked down, only to find a beautiful calico (有斑点的) kitten sitting there, looking up at me with big, intelligent eyes. There was no way that she could have rung the doorbell by herself, was there? Were my new neighbors playing tricks on me? Perhaps, someone had found the kitten somewhere and left her there, and then rang the doorbell and ran away. They accurately guessed we would welcome an additional family member and take care of her.

My husband called her our little angel, so we named her Angelica accordingly. It seemed as if she was always meant to be in this big family and she turned out to be a perfect companion. Always by my side, she was more like a puppy than a kitten. Wise beyond her years, she enjoyed exploring through the mysterious house as much as I did, but with much less fear. Angelica was courageous.

So, I decided to be brave, too. I had promised my husband that I wouldn’t explore dangerous areas unless he or someone else was around, but he was away on a business trip for a week and I figured that Angelica would count as my companion. I was ready to explore the cellar, and so was she.

The only way in was through a hatch (盖子) that was partially hidden by the grass that covered it, then down a shaky ladder to its dark depths, probably twelve feet deep. I equipped myself with a good flashlight and warm clothes. Angelica sat on the edge and watched me carefully start down the ladder. Suddenly, there was a crash at the foot.

It all began when I moved to Dallasin the fourth grade, and I noticed that I was behind in my reading at School. Reading out loud, I had difficulty with half the sentences. My teacher, Mrs. Agnew, said my reading comprehension and ability to pronounce words was at a lower level than other fourth graders. I was scared every time she called on me to read aloud because, although I would try my hardest, she would always have to help me with the words. Mrs. Agnew suggested to my mother that I be tested for dyslexia (发育性阅读障碍) and seek a cure.

At first I didn’t understand why I was being tested. To be honest, I was in fear of facing failure then. Nervous and confused, I sat waiting in the hospital room, unsure of what Dr. Grady, the doctor who diagnosed developmental dyslexia, was telling my parents about the test results.

However, the final results showed that I did have developmental dyslexia. Knowing it, I froze. I had no idea what to do but stand still. My mother looked at me and said quietly, “Honey, don’t worry, and I’ll be with you all time. Are you going to let the obstacle get in your way? Say NO!”. Eventually, I became determined to struggle against my disability. I started to take speech treatments from doctors and some medical volunteers regularly. Dr. Grady told us to go to the hospital twice a week for treatment and my reading ability will get to normal after three years’ training.

Gradually, I even began to love reading, which I had once hated it so much. Several medical volunteers listened to me patiently and taught me patiently. I was deeply moved. Whenever I saw volunteers in white candy-striped (粉白相间条纹的) medical uniforms passing by me, I had a strong desire to give back by being a volunteer to help those like me.

A Charitable Heart

Mom had a unique perspective on being charitable that I didn’t really understand until one cold winter day when she picked me up at school.

“Who is that child? “Mom peered through the windshield as a skinny, greasy-haired girl led a crew of ragged children across the street. “They don’t even have coats. It’s freezing! “

“That’s Becky Ingler. She always looks like that, “I replied. My mother watched them move along the sidewalk. “Where are we going? “I asked as she inched along the street, keeping pace about a half-block behind the Inglers.

They entered a half-ruined store. “They live here?” Mom mumbled, looking at me. “Tell me about them.” I told her what I knew; that the Inglers didn’t have a father, and sometimes they smelled funny and everybody laughed at them. My mother nodded thoughtfully. “I think I’ll visit them tomorrow.” She turned to me and added, “I want you to come with me.” “OK.” I replied.

The next day, I followed Mom to the Inglers’ front door. A tiny, exhausted-looking woman appeared, and Mom smiled and offered her hand. “Hello, Mrs. Ingler. I’m Mrs. Tovey. I’m just visiting some of our neighbors to get acquainted. “Once inside, my mother studied each of the children surrounding unhappy Becky, who was reading a worn-out book to them. She rudely ignored my nod. Mrs. Ingler smiled politely and thanked us for our visit. Before we left, Mom told Mrs. Ingler she sincerely hoped we would see her again soon. I could not understand what she meant by that, but I soon learned.

Mom worked her old sewing machine for two days and nights. She collected coats from the donation boxes, local secondhand stores and our own closets, patching, taking in and letting out seams (缝合线). “Wow!” I said. “They’re lucky to get these.”

“No,” said Mom as she faced me. “We’re the lucky ones to be able to help them. But we need to make sure the Inglers don’t have to pay a price for them. “She then explained, “I don’t want these coats to cost them their pride or their dignity.”

Later that day, we went to the Inglers’ again.

Mrs. Ingler gazed at the coat, and then glanced at Becky, who was eyeing it with interest.