essay on one narrate experience
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For years my mother was a police officer and then a police dispatcher. She worked swing shift, doubles, whatever she had to do to provide for her kids.
The Thanksgiving when I was 13, she was scheduled to work until 6 a.m. She planned to come home, sleep for a few hours and start dinner. She had recently separated from father and was working extra shifts to make a good life for my sisters, brother and me. My mom came home that morning and told us to make sure she was awake by 10 a.m. so she could start the turkey. There were bags under her eyes, and it was clear that she was exhausted.
My 17-year-old sister and I decided we weren't going to wake her. We enlisted our little brother and sister, then 4 and 6, and the four of us made the entire meal. My sister had been helping mother for so many years that, though the dishes didn't have mom's magic touch, we were instructed by our sister exactly what to do. We were pretty much successful in roasting Turkey, not the entire bird, or else that would have been a fine disaster! But we made our own version of the dish.
My mom awoke with a start a few hours later. She bounded into the kitchen, apologizing for oversleeping. Then she looked around and saw that we had started--and nearly finished--cooking without her. She cried, we cried, and that was the best Thanksgiving we ever had, just the five of us.
It was a memory that we'd all remember. That was the moment where I realized that I had grown-up. My mother has been a mom and dad for all of us, and the first time that I helped my sister, and in turn, mother, by preparing a meal, and that too on Thanksgiving, was the beginning of a new journey. Ever since, I have been assisting my mom, from grating carrots to learning when to put the souffles in the oven.