job. Her arms too tired to keep
working, but the image of us
pushing her to do so. “This is all
for them, “she would whisper.
At 10 p.m., she was finally
done for the day. She would
come home exhausted, her
eyes fighting to stay awake. Her
shoulders hunched forward; her
body already numb and asleep,
while her stomach forced it
to stay awake. All the lights
would be off except the little
lamp illuminating her plate.
She would eat alone and would
rise in a few hours to start the
next day. She would be awake
by 6 a.m. and I wouldn’t catch
sight of her until 11p.m. I
couldn’t bear this thought, and I
wouldn’t let it happen. I blinked
back to reality, the reality
in which we were all happy
together, unified by one dinner
table. That night was the night
that I recognized the wisdom
behind my Dad’s words:
“We are a family and have to
eat like one.”