Families can grow from the same roots yet branch in completely different directions. My sister Samira and I were living proof. We were raised by our single mother, a woman who carried the weight of two parents while working multiple jobs to keep us clothed, fed, and loved. Even as a child, I could sense the quiet strength it took for her to keep our small family afloat.
I remember those lean years vividly. Our apartment was tiny and drafty, the kind of cold that settled in your bones during winter. Sometimes there wasn’t enough food. I’ll never forget the smell of our neighbor Mrs. Jenkins’ soup drifting through the hallway before she knocked on our door, smiling warmly as she handed over a steaming pot. Mom always insisted she wasn’t hungry, sipping tea while Samira and I ate. Even back then, I knew she was sacrificing for us.
