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I have no memory of my mother. I'm not sure if she died when I was younger, left my father, or what. You'd think the easiest way to find out would be to ask my father, but he's no longer alive. When he was, he resolutely refused to talk about "that woman," and would just leave the room, hit me, or both whenever I brought it up. There is something about the not knowing that has always troubled me - not to distraction, but enough to make me write this here.

I saw a young girl in the ghetto one day, playing with a ball. She was throwing it to the ground, so that it would bounce up into a wall and back to her waiting hands. I passed by, thinking to myself, "Poor kid. She's so dirty and underprivileged. I'm glad I had a better life as a kid." I'd gotten a few meters from the corner when this madman comes screaming around the corner, loses control of his car and heads right for the young girl. I couldn't do anything. What could I do? I just watched in horror as...

...a woman ran out of the nearby store, swooping the young girl into her protective arms as she continued across the street to safety.

Poor kid? Not only does she know her mother, but also how much she means to her.

I have no memory of my mother. I miss her anyway.

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