I Am Smart

On this particular day, my son couldn’t think of anything to tell me about school. And I grew angry. The kind of silent anger that I didn’t voice, but he could sense. I saw him nervously flipping through his binder of schoolwork containing words that he didn’t understand. He was looking for something — anything — that he recognized so that he could make me happy.

My mother’s shoes

Every year, I go to the Coach store and buy my mother a scarf, or a handbag, or a wallet, or a hat, or a pair of shoes — things she likes, but would never buy for herself. She tells me often that the only nice clothes she owns are the ones I bought for her. This isn’t entirely true. My siblings have given her some lovely things or gifted her with money to buy whatever she wants. But it is true that the two of us have gone shopping together the most.