780 Words Essay on My Mother - Publish Your Articles
First of all, I would like to thank to you for your great help.
My exam was on 11February my speaking questions
What is your name?
Are you a student or work?
Do you like children?
Some other questions then he gave a topic
Talk about an occasion when you spend time with child?
What you did ?
Who can do good care of children mother or father?
Why do you think mother can do good rearing of there children?
Why some father do rearing of there children?
Some more questions about children
Writing task 2
In some countries smoking is ban as it is injurious to health similarly some people think that mobile phone should be ban on certain places
Do you agree to this idea?
I have question to ask that my risult has to come on 24 February and now it will come on 3 March why my result delay? ??????
Thanks mam in advance
201 Words Short Essay on My Mother for kids
The fact that my mother loved women was nothing to be shy about when I was six. At that age life was life, love was love, and all I craved was stability, so much so that I melted with ease and delight at the announcement that we were moving in with her new girlfriend and her two teenage daughters. There would now be family dinners, maybe, and the comfort of having somebody else absorb my mother’s anxiety.
When I became a fiction writer in my 30s, I wrote a story about a woman who killed herself eating too much opium. After my mother read a draft of that story, she had tears in her eyes. Now she had proof: my grandmother had talked to me and told me her true story. How else could I have known my grandmother had not died by accident but with the fury of suicide? She asked me, “She here now?” I answered honestly, “I don’t know.”
Essay on my father is better than my mother - …
I’m missing a moment, or perhaps a string of them; I’m missing the way the world changed for me, where simplicity turned into something else, something retched that stuck to my body, to my clothes, to my hair. Something that turned me inside out many times a day in an attempt to find a way to be comfortable, to stand still and not worry about where the next blow was going to come from. I’m missing the place where the simple truth of my mother loving women turned into everything love was not, into something I had to bury deep inside the marrow of my bones.
"My Mother Essay In Hindi" Essays and Research Papers
I shoved the letter in its pink envelope deep into my faded denim backpack and stared at my sneakers. I felt bad because I knew this little girl with big black eyes had the best intentions when she wrote in her fancy handwriting on flowered stationary that she wants me to know she knows, and that it is okay, that she does not think it is a bad thing that my mother is a –only in Hebrew the word is lesbit, pronounced less-beet, and this is the first time I had seen it written. The ugliest word in the dictionary, so ugly it shouldn’t have the right to exist—not in English or Hebrew or any other language. It’s a word that is so dirty it might as well be a swear word; only it’s not, it pretends to be civilized, to be tolerant and progressive, but my eight-year-old self knows better than to fall for that. I never uttered the word and when I heard it I shuddered so deep inside that I thought I might break or throw up or run so far away that when I come back it’ll be long after the word has been banished from society. It’s a word that reeks of shame, of sex, of the backside of life exposed to me much too soon.
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Instead of this repentance, I want my mother to rekindle the fire that burned inside her when she was younger than I am now, I want her to feel that sense of urgency that made her leave me in the sidelines, that made her push through life in a search for breath, because now I too know what it’s like to be asleep, I know what it’s like to live a lie, I now know that when you don’t unleash the beast inside you, it comes back to tear you at the neck instead of running free. I want my mother to find the place where she traded in her love of woman for what she thought it meant to love regardless of the pain and abuse. Because it’s my mother who needs to stand with pride for coming out of her own closet when everyone else was still hiding. I want for her to set aside her own shame about translating love into the nightmare that became my childhood; I want her to cut a line down the center of our life and hold to the light her courage to be free, allowing the shameful expression of her freedom to fall to the sides, limp and lifeless. Maybe then shame can finally break its ties with anger. For us both.