One thing that I won’t forget, no matter how far I get in my life, is my mom, Mary. That lady is something else. Not only was she a struggling mother of three, she had the self-belief to make the most out of any situation, and I guess a little bit of that rubbed off on us kids as well. We grew up tough, and we were made men by a wonderfully strong woman.

           Life wasn’t easy once dad left us. I was just three years old. My two brothers, Marcus and Calvin, were older than me. Mom had a good job working at a day care center, but dad’s construction work brought home the bacon.  Once dad left, the child support came in regularly, at least for a while, but then he disappeared. The cops said he had fled the country, he had mismanaged thousands on a construction job, and now the law was after him. He high-tailed it and was never heard of again. And so Mom stepped up to the plate.

   

           We had some tough times. There was hardly enough to eat. Mom started working a second job just to pay the bills and put food on the table. She started working an evening shift at a call center. We’d hardly see her most days. Marcus, the eldest, took care of Calvin and I. Mom couldn’t afford a babysitter, so he was the next best thing to it.

 He made sure we didn’t get out of line, and with so much time to kill, and with so many distractions out on the streets and in the neighborhood, he kept a close watch on the two of us. Our friends were out smoking weed, and sitting on their porches drinking beer, but we had to hit the books, watch TV, help take out the trash, help out making dinner, and then go to bed without waiting up for mom. Being a rough neighborhood, Marcus always slept with a baseball bat at his side, and sometimes, I swear that he slept with his eyes open.

            Mom was always busy, but she always gave us the little time she had. I could see some days she’d be muttering to herself when packing my lunch, and there’d be tears in her eyes, but she never spoke a harsh, frustrated word to any of us. Whenever she did speak, she was always full of optimism, talking of the “better days” that were to come. Days when we would be big, rich men, when we wouldn’t have to walk, bum rides, or take the bus. Yes, mom dreamed of getting us a nice car. Something we could use to go visit family, and spend some time with our grandparents. Unfortunately, she never could afford that car.

            There were people lined up to help. Everyone from her brother Melvin to my mom’s parents who had saved up enough for a rainy day. But mom wouldn’t accept what she called “charity.” She was a proud woman, and in the end, her resilience won through.

            There was another big shock to come in all our lives. Calvin died in car accident when he was just 21. Once again, mom bore the pain with the strength and dignity that only she could muster. Today, Marcus works in insurance. I am a successful graphic designer at an advertising agency. We got where we are without borrowing a single cent, and only on our merit, and mom’s hard work. We are still very close to her, and meet up every Sunday afternoon for lunch at her place. She is old now, almost 76, but she refuses to come stay with either of her sons. She wants her independence she says, this is how she wants to live she says. In her driveway sits a black Cadillac, a small gift she grudgingly accepted from me. She finally got her car, and I finally gave something back to the woman who had given me so much.