Grace James Kumkee

My mother, my true hero.

As a child, I witnessed my father beating my mother. My siblings and I would run away when he got in one of his moods. On these nights, we waited outside and kept watch for the lights to go out. That was our signal that it was safe to return. It would take hours some nights. When the lights went out, we knew our father had fallen asleep. We would tiptoe back inside and continue sleeping. So many times, like me, she cried for mercy when no longer able to bear the pain. My mother wore sunglasses to work the following day to cover up the bruises. The more I thought about my mother, the more I realized would end up just like her if I did nothing.