My mother doesn’t cry in front of me. She doesn’t cry because I am seven and there is a new baby on the way. The new baby cries in her place and I hold the baby’s hand. My mother doesn’t cry – she smiles and smiles into the night.

My mother doesn’t cry in front of me. Not even when she loses her job at University. Not even when the mean people at the University go about their mean aways. She doesn’t cry in front of me, because she has students waiting at home – children at the at the gateway to Algebra. Even when those children throw pencils at her, she doesn’t cry. She keeps quiet. She whispers and remains quiet.

My mother doesn’t cry in front of me. Not even when I am in middle school, ignoring her calls – she doesn’t cry. Not even when my four year old sister opens her mouth and says, “I hate you, Mom.” She doesn’t cry. She keeps the house clean and well-lighted. She sings and smiles and opens the curtains.

My mother doesn’t cry in front of me. Not even when I do. Even when she sees her child turn her back on the world, she doesn’t cry. She says the world is a light burden for the one who created it. I tell her that she doesn’t understand. But that was a foolish thing to say. Because she did.

My mother doesn’t cry in front of me. Not even when she’s been fighting with my dad for a week. Not even with the filth pouring out their mouths, she doesn’t cry. At least, not in front of me. She doesn’t cry because I am young, and my sister is younger. And youth has no place singing someone else’s songs of experience.

But one day, I was not so young anymore.

Or rather, I was young – but not so much so. I’d passed a certain point in growing up. Nobody knew what that point was – but I’d passed it. And there was my badge of maturity, waiting for me in the kitchen –

My mother was crying. Even with me in front of her, she was crying. But just for one second. She cried for one second. And then the the next second, she stopped.

Because she was my mother.