Motherhood is sacrifice.

When I think about the times, you've stood in harm's way for me and my sister, and for those you have left in Bangladesh, I shudder to think that I will ever be half the woman you are today.

When I was 13, I asked you why you couldn't be a doctor, or a professor like some of my friends' mothers. I know you were hurt. I regretted my words.

When I was 11, I woke up to a loud banging. It was a Wednesday, and I had class the next day.

He was standing over you, in our kitchen, with a fistful of your hair in each palm.

He shook your head back so hard that the sounds of your skull against the wall sounded like the drumming of the tabla.

I was wailing, and ran to the phone.

"I'm going to call 911."

He turned his attention towards me, dark, scaly skin hanging, and eyes bulged like a predator fixated on his prey. He started to run towards me.

You mustered up the strength, within seconds, and leaped in front of him when he attempted to kill me next. I thought you were already dead.

He hit you a few more times, and left.

I wish he were dead, but then he came back. He always came back.

These are the unspoken stories of my mother's sacrifice.

I want to bring them to life.

I am working on the story of my mother's life. I haven't even started the book yet, but her story is so courageous, and interesting, that I hope I have enough will to have it completed and published in the next few years.

Thank you for always reading.