The Woman Who Raised Him
She worked three jobs and never let them see it in her face,
the pantry bare but somehow always full enough,
no charity from neighbors, no handouts from the priest,
she kept the worst things locked behind her teeth.
She worked three jobs and never let them see it in her face,
the pantry bare but somehow always full enough,
no charity from neighbors, no handouts from the priest,
she kept the worst things locked behind her teeth.
There were mornings she would not describe—decades later, still—
when the heat cut off in winter and the windows had a chill,
when she bent the math until it begged and crawled,
and never let him see the ground coming up.
He stood beside her grave and finally understood:
the pride she carried quietly, the way she never would
let anyone see the weight she bore alone,
the woman who raised him never needed it shown.