The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found.
There is no greater heaven than the heart of a loving mother
She takes care of you when you are still in her womb.
She nurtures you after you are born.
She hurts when you fall,
She celebrates when you make your first steps.
She is the only person who genuinely cares about you.
She loves you as she loves herself.
Her heart is your true paradise.
I love you mama.
If my mother will not go to heaven, I renounce the privilege
But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begins.
Does your ma know you’re this silly?” she demanded tartly.
He nodded, comically sad. “The few gray hairs she has on her head are my doing. But” – with an exaggerated change of mood – “I send her plenty of money, so she can pay to have them dyed!”
“I hope she beat you as a child,” Onua grumbled.
You will like her,” he persisted. “Egad, she’s after your own heart, maman! She shot me in the arm.”
“Voyons, do you think that is what I like?
In the end, Mothers are always right. No one else tells the truth.
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? (Just to give you an idea, Proust’s reply was ‘To be separated from Mama.’) I think that the lowest depth of misery ought to be distinguished from the highest pitch of anguish. In the lower depths come enforced idleness, sexual boredom, and/or impotence. At the highest pitch, the death of a friend or even the fear of the death of a child.
In truth, it was also by design: as much as I loved my mother, she wasn’t often the person I sought for comfort in hard times. She disapproved tacitly of crying.
But Moominmamma was quite unperturbed.
“Well, well!” she said, “it seems to me that our guests are having a very good time.”
“I hope so,” replied Moominpappa. “Pass me a banana, please dear.