The economic downturn caught us. We sold our ranch and moved to town, Mother had decided to open a day nursery. She had had no training, but that didn’t stand in her way. She sent away for correspondence courses in child care, did the lessons and in six months formally qualified herself for the task. It wasn’t long before she had a full enrollment and a waiting list. I accepted all this as a perfectly normal instance of Mother’s ability. But neither the nursery nor the motel my parents bought later had provided enough income to send my sister and me to college. In two years I would be ready for college. Time was running out, and Mother was anxious for ways to save money. It was clear that Dad could do no more than he was doing already — farming 80 acres in addition to holding a full-time job. A few months after we’d sold the motel, Mother arrived home with a used green typewriter.

“That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were done, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight. Soon I heard Mother got a job at the radio station. I was not the least bit surprised, or impressed. But she was wild with joy.

Monday, after her first day at work, I could see that the excitement was gone.

Tuesday, Dad made dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Mother stayed in her sewing room, practicing. “Is Mother all right?” I asked Dad. “She’s having a little trouble with her typing,” he said. “She needs to practice. I think she’d appreciate it if we all helped out a bit more. You might just remember that she is working primarily so you can go to college.”

Wednesday, I arrived home earlier and was surprised by what I saw — Mother was crying in the corner of the couch.

Mother took another job earning half, but the evening practice sessions on the old green typewriter continued.

Emily came from a musical family. Her father was a famous pianist in his early years and later was a music instructor. Her mother, however, was a performer and composer. Emily’s older brother was a Cello and part of the church’s choir. However, Emily wasn’t like her brother. She was unable to play any instrument.

“You have to be an instrument that you’re playing. Why aren’t you able to do it?” Emily’s father said to her, advising her to learn to play the piano. From time to time, her mother would show the wish that Emily could develop her ability to perform on the stage. It seemed that the whole family was pushing her to play music. Every time this happened, it was a massive pain for her. Emily felt that she wasn’t part of her family. It was her dream to become just like the rest of them. However, no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to.

“Being different doesn’t mean that you aren’t blessed with any potential or talent,” said Sarah, a teacher of Emily. “Maybe there is something interesting that I can do,” Emily thought. Every evening, Emily spent time sketching or drawing and painting in her bedroom. Her paintings showed her father on the piano and her brother on the Cello as well as her mother performing on the stage. Her paintings were vivid and the emotions were real. The paintings revealed how much her family was devoted to music. The paintings also revealed the things Emily was skilled at.

But her family did not even know. The only thing they knew was that Emily was unable to sing and play one musical instrument. And they weren’t happy with her at all. Emily was a lover of her loved ones, and she loved them dearly. She wanted to be the pride of the family someday. How could this happen when she wasn’t able to do what they asked her to accomplish?

My life is a juggling act. I’m a single mother of two sons. I’ve got a busy work schedule and limited resources. But there is one thing I don’t worry about: when I come home at night, dinner is already started. A typical weeknight at my house looks like this:

My youngest child is snapping (咬) the ends off the green beans. My eldest is mixing his secret salad dressing. The babysitter is working on the shopping list for tomorrow’s dinner-the kids want to make roasted noodles. I throw on an apron, send the babysitter home and join my kids in the dinner preparations.

Sounds too far-fetched for your home? It doesn’t have to be. If my family can do it. Any family can. Our meals weren’t always such happy group efforts. Seven years ago, my life was ruined by divorce, leaving me with a six-month-old baby and a very angry seven-year-old. I had no family nearby and very little money. The burden of rebuilding my career as a food writer and publicist while single-parenting my children on my own seemed difficult.

While I did my best to work during my youngest’s nap times, by day’s end I was physically and emotionally exhausted. Typically, I shooed(嘘)the boys out of the kitchen so I could perform yet another chore: making dinner. When I got the meal on the table, I left them to eat alone so I could have five minutes’ peace. Going back to my bedroom, I collapsed onto my bed and cried. I felt horrible about my family life and helpless to change it.

A year passed, but not much improved. At the end of my rope, one evening I gave some vegetable leaves at my youngest, who was then eighteen months old, so he’d leave me alone. It was incredible! He spent ten minutes happily tearing the leaves into little pieces. I was shocked at how he stayed on the task without saying a word.

Suddenly, I saw an opportunity. He wanted to help me, and I surely needed help.

Why not let them cook with me?

I stopped worrying about the mess and we started to laugh a lot.