“Are you even listening?”

With my headphones on my ears, I tried to catch parts of what my mom was saying as she slowly pressed down on the breaks at a red light.

“You need to get your grades up... All your friends have better averages… You have younger siblings who look up to you…” she said angrily.

My mom liked to tell people that she received a “two for one” deal when speaking about her children. My brothers were identical twins, giving me a much harder time. I was forced to take on double the work, double the annoyance, and double the responsibility.

Regardless of how much I complained, my mother was right. Filling in for my father, she played both parental roles in my life. She tried her hardest to cook, clean, maintain multiple jobs, and be the best possible parent she could be.

Although I appreciated everything she did, our language barrier played a vital role in most of our disputes and arguments. People usually pointed out that my mom looked very young and modern for her age, but that did not exactly mean she understood all of my problems and inclinations. Our Central Asian culture is considered very “old-fashioned” because of the narrow mind of the older generations. My mother was raised in a household with strict and conservative beliefs. Therefore, my freedom was extremely limited due to stereotypes and religious prohibitions.

Contrary to what it may sound like, my mother and I usually got along very well. We told each other everything and were respective of each other’s privacy. A memorable moment in our relationship was when I walked in on her crying for the first time. I was about six years old, and for someone with a childhood such as mine, it was a traumatizing experience.

My childhood was made up of many rough patches due to my parents' divorce. I was young. I needed a mom baking cakes for my piano recitals and a dad sitting in the front row, smiling big, waving at me with a camera in his hand. Everyone around me had it, why couldn’t I?

It wasn’t until later that I realized my mother was crying because she was afraid of losing us. Regardless of how many times I yelled out the words “I hate you” and slammed my door across the hall, she fought, and paid every lawyer she could, to keep custody of her children. The countless, stressful nights on the phone and dark under eye circles meant nothing to her. She always remained strong, influencing others to follow in her steps. My mother had always been there for me, I just didn't notice.

As the car pulled up to school, I took off my headphones, shaking off any last-minute nerves I had regarding my exam first period.

“Don’t worry. I know you’ll do fine. Good luck.” my mom said. I smiled and kissed her on the cheek, more confident than ever.