I stopped at the top of the stairs uniform on, bags packed. The left wall was covered with pictures of a boy, young and innocent and how he grew to be who he is now. I marched down the stairs but paused at the bottom step to peek my head around the corner. She’s standing at the far side of the kitchen absentmindedly cutting the oranges. I took a deep breath as I mustered the courage to say goodbye.

My steps echoed as my thick leather boots reached the tile floor. She didn’t say a word, just bowed her head and began to twist the rinds on the juicer.

“Mom, you know I have to do this,” I said “I want you to be proud.” Her hands stopped their hypnotic motion, yet she stayed silent and did not turn. My bag dropped to the floor. Her hand stayed firmly on the orange as she resumed twisting its precious contents into a cup. I began to say something but before I could she wiped her eyes and turned to me,her ashen,tired skin stained by tears.

“Want some orange juice before you go?” she asked, “It’s fresh squeezed.”