#daught

Hours later I wake to the sound of my mother coming home from work. Her low voice. Her tired tread. Her face is dim, the kitchen too, but day breaks in our single window as she eats the breakfast I have made from what she made me, and her face: it dawns: a horizon I have never seen: I see: my mother knows pleasure. Hard-won, deep-buried, scraped from the dark of need, hers is a pleasure I find by seeking my own. I was raised to eat bitterness.

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