Sweat blurred my vision.

All I had to do for the two dollars was to clean her house for a few hours after school. It was a beautiful house, too, with things that were common in her neighborhood, absent in mine. In the middle of the war, she had butter, sugar…

I knew how to clean floors on my knees and how to wash clothes, but I had never seen a Hoover vacuum cleaner or an iron that wasn't heated by fire.

Part of my pride in working for her was earning money I could squander: on movies, candy, paddle balls, jacks, ice-cream cones. But a larger part of my pride was based on the fact that I gave half my wages to my mother, which meant that some of my earnings were used for real things. The pleasure of being necessary to my parents was profound. I was not like the children in folktales: burdensome mouths to feed, nuisances to be corrected, problems so severe that they were abandoned to the forest. I had a status that doing routine chores in my house did not provide — and it earned me a slow smile, an approving nod from an adult. Confirmations that I was adult-like, not childlike.

In those days, the forties, children were not just loved or liked; they were needed. They could earn money; they could care for children younger than themselves; they could work the farm, take care of the herd, and much more. I suspect that children aren't needed in that way now. They are loved, doted on, protected, and helped.

Little by little, I got better at cleaning her house — good enough to be given more to do. After pushing the piano, my arms and legs hurt so badly. I wanted to refuse, or at least to complain, but I was afraid she would fire me, and I would lose the freedom the dollar gave me, as well as the standing I had at home. She began to offer me her clothes, for a price. Impressed by these worn things, which looked simply gorgeous to a little girl who had only two dresses to wear to school, I bought a few. Until my mother asked me if I really wanted to work for castoffs. So I learned to say “No, thank you” to a faded sweater offered for a quarter of a week's pay.

Still, I had trouble summoning the courage to discuss or object to the increasing demands she made. And I knew that if I told my mother how unhappy I was she would tell me to quit. Then one day, alone in the kitchen with my father, I let drop a few whines about the job. In any case, he put down his cup of coffee and said, “Listen. You don't live there. You live here. Whatever the work is, do it well — not for the boss but for yourself. You make the job; it doesn't make you. Your real life is with us, your family. You are not the work you do; you are the person you are.”

I have worked for all sorts of people since then, geniuses and morons, quick-witted and dull, big-hearted and narrow. I've had many kinds of jobs, but since that conversation with my father I have never considered the level of labor to be the measure of myself, and I have never placed the security of a job above the value of home.

I had the meanest mother in the world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal (麦片粥), eggs and toast. Others had cokes and candy for lunch, while we had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my supper was different from the other kids’. But at least I was not alone in my suffering. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did.

My mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times. She had to know who our friends were and what we were doing. We had to wear clean clothes every day. Other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of disgrace (丢脸) because she made our clothes herself, just to save money.

The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by 9:00 each night and up at 7:45 the next morning. So while my friends slept, my mother actually had the courage to break Child Labor Law. She made us work. I believed she lay awake all night thinking up mean things to do to us. Through the years, our friends’ report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother, however, would merely be content with black marks. None of us was allowed the pleasure of being a dropout (辍学者).

She forced us to grow up into educated and honest adults. Using this as a background, I’m now trying to bring up my three children. I’m filled with pride when my children think I am mean because now I thank God every day for giving me the meanest mother in the world.

A few years ago, I spared a couple of hours from busy academic learning to work in a video store on a daily basis. There was something in the elderly woman’s behavior that caught my eye. Although slow and unsure of step, the woman moved with deliberation, and there was no hesitation in her gestures. And she had a job to do.

The elderly woman had walked into the store along with a younger woman who guessed was her daughter. The daughter was displaying a serious case of impatience, checking her watch every few seconds. The older woman detached from the younger one and began to tick through the DVDs on the nearest shelf. After the slightest hesitation, I walked over and asked if I could help her find something. The woman smiled up at me and showed me a title scrawled on a crumpled (皱巴巴的) piece of paper. The title was a bit difficult to understand. Clearly a person looking for it knew a little about movies, about quality.

Rather than rushing off to locate the DVD for the woman, I asked her to walk with me so I could show her where she could find it. Something about her deliberate movements reminded me of my own mother, who’d departed this life last Christmas. As we walked along the back of the store, I narrated its floor plan. The woman seemed glad of the unrushed company and casual conversation. We found the movie, and I complimented (称赞) her on her choice. Then, reluctantly, I had to return the elderly woman to her keeper, who was still tapping her foot at the front of the store.

I walked over to the younger woman. “Is that your mom?” I asked. She rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah.” There was annoyance in her reply, half sigh and half complaint. Still watching the mother, I said, “Mind some advice?” “Sure,” said the daughter. I smiled to show her I wasn’t criticizing. I answered her curious expression by saying, “When she’s gone, it’s the little moments that will come back to you. Moments like this. I used to let it slip. I know.”