My most unforgettable childhood memories are the lunchtime stories that my mother read to me and my twin sister every day after lunch in our dining room lunch. I was the only kid in our apartment who actually wanted to go to the dining room well before lunch time. As a child, I couldn't wait to hear the next story and, when I got older, the chapter of whatever escapade he was reading to us at the time. I wasn't just fascinated by the stories my mother read to us, there was something endearing about sitting on the edge of the chair with my mother and my dog ​​Sheryl, lulled by the melodic sound of my mother's voice as she read the words so softly. I've always wanted to do the same with my kids one day. It never would have occurred to me that I would be doing the same thing in the summer at the beginning of my senior year. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay It was only in the sixth month of pregnancy when it was declared that my mother had to undergo surgery for broken legs, a broken arm, and a broken back; all this in the space of a month. Incredibly, none of these injuries appeared to be related to each other. She had tripped and fallen on the stairs while doing her normal household chores, had fallen off her bicycle while walking home from the nearby grocery store, and had an ongoing disc problem respectively. When I saw my mother lying on the bed with both legs in a cast, her left arm and a back brace; it hit me hard and I realized I was wrong in my childhood vision that my mother was an indomitable heroine just like the characters in those lunchtime stories. My mother couldn't do anything without the use of her legs and arm. It was clear that she needed someone to be at home most of the time and to look after her as she could not do so alone. This became my responsibility and at first I wasn't happy at all. During my freshman year, I looked forward to the summer days when I would hang out at the beach with some of my classmates. But instead I had to stay at home to take care of my mother. I had to practice cooking different types of food to cope with my mother's ever-changing diet as the doctors had suggested different varieties of local foods that would be good. well making sure he recovers faster. After preparing the food, I would rush to his room and we would eat together while I read his stories. I remember a time when I was sulking in my room while looking at the shelf of storybooks. All this time I was mentally lamenting the unfairness of my summer when my eyes caught the spine of my favorite book “hope for another day” (Fine & Fincham, 2013). I took my dog ​​Sheryl and ran with him into my mother's room, sat on the edge of her bed and began to read the words of the book softly and aloud as she did. The experience was completely different reading the words that I had loved so much to my mother. This made me appreciate the beauty associated with the depth of characters and language in a way that had previously eluded me. My mother generally didn't read fiction books and would never have experienced Memoirs of Geisha or Gone with the Wind if I hadn't read them to her. The act of sharing my beloved story and sweets with my mother was more than special to me. Although my original goal was to help my mother with her household duties, I believe it was greatly influenced by our stories at home time.