I was sitting in a taxi,wondering if I had overdressed for the evening,when I looked out of the window and saw Mother rooting through(翻找）a dustbin.It was just after dark in March.I was stuck in traffic two blocks from the party where I was heading.

Mother stood fifteen feet away.She had tied rags around her shoulders to keep out the spring cold and was rooting through the trash.Her eyes widened with childish joy when she found something she liked.She looked like any of the thousands of homeless people in New York City.It had been months since I laid eyes on Mother,and when she looked up,I was afraid that she would see me and call out my name,and that someone on the way to the same party would see us together and that my secret would be out.

I slid down in the seat and asked the driver to turn around and take me home.The taxi stopped in front of my building,the doorman held the door for me,and the elevator man took me up to my floor. The apartment was silent except for the click of my heels on the polished wood floor.I felt ashamed when I saw Mother rooting happily through the dustbin.I looked around the room.I'd tried to turn it into the sort of place where the person I wanted to be would live.But I could never enjoy it because I worried about my parents on a sidewalk or somewhere else.I was ashamed of myself for wearing pearls and living on Park Avenue while they were busy keeping warm and finding something to eat.I hated myself-hated my clothes and my apartment.

What could I do?I'd tried to help them countless times,but they would insist they didn't need my help.They said that they were living the way they wanted to.And I just accepted who they were.

I had to do something,so I called my mother.

After she heard that, her smile faded.

Postcards From The World

While the sun washed over the grass of my grandmother’s front garden, I sunk into the familiarity of one of her armchairs. Life, as I knew it, had changed. My beloved grandmother, my nanny, a stand-in parent in the absence of my father, had cancer. It was terminal, and could never be cured.

As she watched Getaway on television, she remarked to me that she’d never left Australia and that now she never would. I swallowed the sadness that came with knowing that chapters of her life were to be left unwritten.

At work, feeling helpless, I wiped tables and took orders and thought. HARD! The Saturday afternoon lunch rush was not enough to lull me from my thoughts. Wracked with grief, I pondered the power of Facebook and the collective strength of human empathy. I raced from the end of my shift to ask strangers on the internet for help.

“My Nanny Del has cancer. It’s terminal and she will never see the world. Please send her postcards so she can see the world from her armchair. I can offer nothing but gratitude.”

I resolved not to breathe a word of this; should nothing come, I couldn’t bear to carry her disappointment along with my own. Should something wander into our humble little letterbox, I would consider it a blessing and embrace it like I embraced her little, shrinking frame.

Days turned to weeks and Nanny’s health worsened rapidly in the early months of 2018. Life took me through my full-time study, babysitting and waiting tables, along with the responsibility of caring for a grandparent who was too sick to care for herself. As I helped Nanny in the early hours of those mornings, she would chat to me, sometimes joys, other times, sorrows. Whatever she shared became precious.

One afternoon, finally, a postcard from the United State arrived in our letterbox.

In the months that followed, her living room became a departure hall and our flights departed daily.

I was packing lunch for my two children and myself when I suddenly began to doubt whether this was necessary. It was so early in the day it was still dark outside, and I was making sandwiches. I thought about just sending lunch money and getting an extra half hour of sleep. Being a single mom, I needed all the shut-eye I could get.

So why was I adding this stress to my life? It’s all because of genetics (遗传).

I remember my grandmother telling me how, many years ago, she packed leftovers (剩饭) for my grandfather’s lunch. He loved them but always seemed to come home hungry. Finally after much questioning, he admitted he had been giving away half his lunch to a co-worker who had none of his own. From that day forward, my grandmother always sent extra—just in case.

With five kids in school at the same time, my mom didn’t have time to pack lunches. We ate cafeteria food, which was fine with us. In the world of our primary school, it was not cool to bring your lunch from home. There was an exception to the no-pack rule, however. As a punishment, we were forced to bring our own lunch for however many days my mom chose to keep us. My time of suffering came in third grade. I had broken the rules. For four days, my noontime dinner consisted of a cheese and mustard sandwich, a bag of chips and one lonely cookie. By Friday my mom changed her mind. And although I still brought my lunch from home, she packed it for me.

That afternoon I opened my lunchbox to find my favorite egg salad sandwich, a choice apple and a whole giant cake with a note taped on top: “Just in case you want to share.” To my 10-year-old eyes, that cake looked big enough to feed the world. I was in heaven as I offered piece after piece to my friends. It was the best lunch of my life.

As I continued packing lunch for my kids, I thought about my grandmother and mother.     

I emptied my own packed lunch on the table and divided it between the children, then made two more sandwiches.