Six feet tall and a force to be reckoned with, my mom raised five children, alone, on very little money. While pregnant with my brother, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. My grandmother pressured her to terminate the pregnancy, but my mom refused. After giving birth, she started driving 100 miles for regular chemotherapy sessions, taking my siblings and me along. On these trips, my mom followed the tradition of buying us fancy drinks at a gas station, hoping to distract us from our difficulties. One time, the car overheated, and she prayed aloud: “I just need to make it to the hospital!” After we arrived, people came running with a fire extinguisher, yelling, “Can’t you see the flames?” Calmly, my mom unloaded us from the car, said, “I’ll be back for it,” smiled, and took us inside. She made me feel so safe. All these years later, it's never crossed my mind how scared she must have been. Eventually, she got worse and was confined to a hospital bed in our living room. Because we didn’t want to leave her by herself, my 11-year-old sister and I took turns staying home from school. For a whole year, I didn’t learn much of anything. When I was 13, my mom died. Afterwards, I spent a few months with a foster family. The first time they took me to church, I just felt comfortable. I even remember the way it smelled—a warm scent like incense or perfumed oil. Without trying, my foster parents showed me what a stable life could be. At the same time, my foster mother had… Read More
