“Are you talking back to me?” I must have let my irritation slip again. “No, I'm just speaking.” Mami and I always fight— or at least, I think it’s fighting. We raise our voices and grow breathless with anger. I don’t think I’ll ever understand her. Growing up it seemed like almost every interaction was a fight, almost everything I did was somehow incorrect in her eyes. The prospect of walking home became terrifying after my mother told stories of rapists, murderers, and kidnappers. Humiliation grew into resentment. Doesn’t she know she’s ruining my life? Until– the swift opening of the door, followed by a slam. Ready to share everything I feel, I walk up to her. But I can’t speak as I see her face fall. Depleted, she steps toward me, wraps her arms around me, and my rage dissipates; I can’t muster one word. “Deimy, they keep making fun of my accent at work.” This isn’t the first time she’s told me, yet I simply can’t believe it. How could the strongest person I knew feel helpless? “They all don’t respect me as their supervisor just because I am an immigrant. I wish I could stay home with you, but I have to work this job. I can’t quit; I do this for you.” She touches my face, “You know everything I do is for you,” she says, eyes glassy. Suddenly, I remember nights of her cleaning the dishes herself until her hands dry out. I feel her caressing my hair as she describes how she left her parents behind in Venezuela to make sure I have the best life here. I hear her calling my grandma every night. The greatest sacrifice my mother made, to leave everything behind, was for me. In all of my remembering, how could I forget about why I do anything? Although my mom cries to me about how one day she will buy me a house with my own room, I know that won’t happen anytime soon. And that’s okay. Laughing in the car, oohing and aahing at the big houses, I see the melancholy in her gaze. I see her look at the mansions we pass, and I know one day she will get to live in one, because I will buy her one. In pursuing my business degree, she gives me the motivation to give her the life she deserves. “You know everything I do is for you. You are like a second mother,” my mother tells me, her warm, worn palms caressing my face. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” Her soft Venezuelan accent melts me. So do her delightful kisses. I may not know why she does some things, and she may not know why I do either, but I am sure of two things. First, my mother does everything for us— and she tells me so. Second, my mom doesn't know I do everything for her, too.