I have a disabled mother. I had a single mother. When I meet someone new, whether it be a friend, coworker, or even a romantic interest, this topic of conversation inevitably does come up. I get various reactions to me explaining that I do, in fact, have a disabled mother who raised me on her own. For example, people in public will talk to ME not her assuming I am caring for her, even if in reality it couldn’t be more opposite. My personal favorite though is when I have to explain this to my teachers on multiple occasions because they think I forge her signature on school paperwork. As one result of her disability, her handwriting is affected, thus teachers question the veracity of her signatures on important forms. I must explain again and again that it is her disability, not a forgery.

To others, I’m sure this concept is strange and hard to fathom. However, to me, this is life and I could not be more grateful. I grew up with a mother who read to me every night, made sure I had dinner to eat, and always found a way to put a roof over my head. More importantly, however, I have the most patient and understanding mother in the world, who “stood” and help me deal with my anxiety, my anger, and any other problems I have had to face. Yes, I have had to learn how to help her, physically and in some situations, emotionally. No, it has not been easy for me or for her. I am by no means a writer like she is, and even if I was Ernest Hemingway, there would be no words to describe the bond we share, the love I have for her, and how thankful I am to have her in my life. Most people are lucky if they ever get to meet their heroes and their ideals, but I was fortunate enough to be raised by mine. She is my professor and I am her Wolverine.