I gripped her hand tight, my voice breaking. "It's not the same."
"Mom, this is my home. You're my mother. You belong here."
My father passed away when I was young. Mom raised me on her own.
To make sure I never went without, she worked three jobs a day. Before dawn, she was at the bakery kneading dough. During the day, she ran a sewing machine at the garment factory. At night, she washed dishes at a restaurant.
She endured so much. Swallowed so much hardship.
But she never once let me wear a dirty shirt or eat a cold meal.
So from the time I was little, I made myself a quiet promise: study hard, work hard, and give her the life she deserved.
After graduation, I threw myself into my career, saved every penny, and bought this apartment. The very first thing I did was ask her to move in.
She refused every time.
One day it was the chickens that needed feeding, the garden that needed tending. The next, she'd say she was used to the countryside and wouldn't know what to do with herself in the city.
Then I got married, and she had a new excuse: young couples needed their privacy, and she didn't want to intrude.