(Rachel's point of view)
Mama never yelled, but everyone listened when she spoke. Even Daddy, who was quite arrogant and mean, knew when her calm eyes met his. There was strength in her quiet, a strength that came from her unflinching determination, not fury.
I observed her every day, from the time I woke up until the early hours of the night when she came home, her shoulders heavy and her hands sore from work. She worked four jobs at a time, and sometimes more, but she never let the tiredness show. Her grin, which was weak but always there, was my lifeline and a reminder that we could survive even in a world that tried to break us.
Once, when I had burned supper because I was trying to help, she said, "You can cry later." "But don't ever let life see you broken." She ran her hands through my hair, and at that instant, I felt all the pain she had been through. She had held me, fed me, and kept me safe from the world, even from the father who had tried to break her spirit, and she never let me know how much it cost.
Mama's strength was quiet, not showy, but real. She woke up early, prepared us breakfast, and kissed my cheek before departing for a job that barely paid the rent. She came home at night, her body hurt, but she always made sure I had food, a clean space, and love. Not the dazzling, easy love that other people take for granted, but the type that lasts through sorrow, unfairness, and tiredness.
I often thought about how she accomplished it. How she smiled through the hard times and kept optimism alive even when every day felt like a fight for her life. I had seen Mom bend under Daddy's anger and possessiveness, but she never completely broke. She kept her back straight, her mind sharp, and her heart soft for me.
Her calm strength made me who I am today. I would have fallen apart if she had. Her strength became my shield and her bravery my guide. I imagined how proud Mom would be of me every time I accomplished something, no matter how minor. Even though she never let herself fully enjoy happiness, I could see it in her tired eyes.
Even when I didn't believe in myself, Mama did. She told me that nothing worth having comes easily and that you have to earn your dignity. She worked herself to death so I could study, follow my ambitions, and get away from the bad things that happened in the past. But in her silences, I felt a heaviness that no amount of work could shake off. It was the quiet grief of the life she had dreamed and the freedom she had never really experienced.
She added, "Rachel," as she brushed a strand of my hair from my face, "the world may try to break you, but strength is not in never falling; it's in rising every time you do."
I took that lesson with me into my teenage years, when I remained up late studying with only a little light and saving every dime I could. I carried it with me into the days when the world judged me, a young girl with a mother from America and Nigeria and a father who had tried to make us invisible. And I dreamed that one day I would show Mama the life she deserved.
But even the strongest hearts can break without anybody knowing, and even the toughest mothers can grieve without anyone seeing. Mama didn't cry very often. She would hold back her tears behind tightly pressed lips and eyes that were staring off into nowhere. I never knew the nights she didn't sleep, the meals she skipped so I could eat, or the prayers she said for me to live and do well. Those sacrifices were like invisible threads that kept us together and kept us from falling apart when the world sought to tear us apart.
Her strength wasn't loud or showy. It didn't need to be noticed. It didn't want to be recognised. But it was stronger than anyone could have imagined. It was the basis for my dreams, the quiet motor that drove my ambition, and the reason I promised her that I would pay her back in a way she never asked for but deserved as soon as I could.
And I believed that if I could just get to the day when I could take her into my shoulders, give her the house of her dreams, and let her breathe without anxiety, maybe she could finally rest and know that the anguish was worth it.
I had no idea that the world had different intentions. Even while I wanted to give daughter the life she deserved, fate was already getting ready to teach me the worst lesson of all: that no matter how strong you are, you can't avoid every heartbreak.