A Mother’s Best

“I have something for you,” My mother paused, “but would you still want it if you knew how I got it?"

She's holding my hand as we're jaywalking in our little town. The rich scent of petrichor hangs in the air as the morning sun breaks through rain clouds. Rays, like gold coins, litter the black asphalt before us in a beautiful display. I needlessly try to avoid a small puddle; my shoes are already wet. Our car was recently repossessed, so we've been walking a lot lately.

As I ponder her question, my mother produces a candy bar from her jacket pocket. I wonder where it came from as I certainly would have noticed her purchasing it from the store we just left. She’d bought only cigarettes.

As she hands the candy to me, I understand she has stolen this item. I also realize she was trying to do something nice for me. But why this way? I was young, yet old enough to know that stealing was wrong. I felt shame, even though I was not the one that stole.

I decided, at a later time in life, she was simply doing the best she knew how.