"Mom? � I�m pregnant" isn�t something you would like to say at the age of sixteen.

My mom was very young when she had her first child. She wasn�t happy of being pregnant at such a young age but she has never had any regrets about it. My mom�s name is Rosa Castellon. Please don�t think it�s me. The only things that separate us from being the same person is the fact that we think and look different and we have different middle names. Her full name is Rosa Esther Castellon while mine is Rosa Elizabeth Castellon. I must tell you she is nothing like me, that�s if you know me. She is not afraid of telling you the first thing that comes to her mind. In other words she is the opposite of me, which might be the reason why I admire her so much.

All her friends know her as Esther; the lady that doesn�t let anything or anyone put her down. At the age of fourteen she was in love with an older guy. His name was Amilcar Castellon, the man who would become my father. My parents were a normal couple. They were ubiquitous, spending a lot of time together in the movies and fancy restaurants. They were like two lovebirds who didn�t know anything else but how to love each other. After my mom�s mother�s lugubrious passing in 1986, my mother decided to abjure her old life and create a whole new one for herself and her children. She decided that that place would be the United States of America.

She arrived in the U.S., at the age of twenty, two years after I was born. My father was a zealous man who followed her all the way to the U.S. and tried to conquer her love once more. My mother didn�t take him back in a flash. Who would? He had alcohol problems and he couldn�t help but solve his problems with violence. The fact that my mom was Christian and the fear of seeing her children without a father dragged her to take him back. She was giving him a second chance; all he needed to do was change his attitude and life style. He did. He became the most lovable, and the kindest husband and father a woman could want. But then again never judge a book by its cover.

It was hard for my mom to live in a new country with no one to talk to and no family members to share her experiences with. To afford her apartment, food, and still have something to save, she had to work two and sometimes three jobs per day. She had no time to sleep; she could only daydream of laying her head down on a pillow and rest until all her problems had vanished. She knew; that would never happen. She had grown strong, not physically but mentally. No one could take that away. The world was a battlefield and her mind was her training camp. There she had everything to succeed in life.

My mom brought my brothers and I to the U.S. in 1995. We admired her; she had come to a country with nothing and achieved so much. She had made new friends, created a new life, and now she was ready to put her own family together. She had three children at an early age. Three children she wouldn�t fully know until she was in her late twenty�s.

She often said "I would give my life for any of my children."

I felt happy and proud because I had a mother who cared so much for me; she�d even give her life for anyone of my brothers or me!

I didn�t just admire her as a mother, but also as a person. Even though she couldn�t read or write in English she could certainly read, write, and speak in Spanish. Working three jobs a day didn�t really leave her much time to go to school here in the U.S. She did learn how to speak English on her own with the help of the television and words she caught from her friends. My father wasn�t much help to my mom especially since he spent more than half his time looking for jobs than actually working. Actually she was the one who took care of her children, the rent, food, and all the other necessary bill by herself.

"Did you find a job yet," my mom would say to my father every time she arrived home from work. She stared down on him like a ravenous lion does on its prey.

"No. I can�t find anything I like!" He would respond that way every single time. He always got on my mom�s nerves that way.

"I don�t like my job either! But I still go to work because we have children we have to take care of. If you don�t find a job soon, you can just start thinking about looking for your own place. I�m not your mother and I�m not taking care of you. You are not a child, but a grown man. You need to take care of your own responsibilities." With this she walked away toward their room and slammed the door shut. He found a few jobs but he always gave the same excuses until my mom got sick and tired of it. She threw him out. From what I�ve heard he now lives in Guatemala and looks forward to the time when he returns to this the U.S. I know my mom will never take him back.

Once after he had left she said, "I rather live happy with my three children than miserable with a good for nothing husband."

This was and still is fine with my brothers and I. We rather have our mom happy than miserable, especially over a man.

I consider the next event as an anomaly because it doesn�t happen that often, at least to me it doesn�t. One day I was doing some chores, when my mom arrived home after a long day at work.

"I�m so tired and sleepy. I�m going to go to bed for a little bit okay." She said nonchalantly.

She was tired from an interminable week at work; it had been very long and she rarely had time to sleep. So she put her things down and went to bed. I felt like she didn�t care about what I was doing or me. I got angry. I threw some things around making huge thumping noises like giant footsteps. With perfect equanimity I sat down and waited for her to wake up and start yelling at me.

"What is wrong with you?" she roared like an irritated lion. I was afraid I almost jumped back at the sound of her voice.

"Do you not see that I�m trying to sleep?" she said with a calmer voice.

"Well, I�m trying to clean this stupid house!" I responded, almost trying to test her patience.

Before laying her head down on the pillow again she said, "Thank you! But do you think you can be a little quieter while cleaning it?"

Even though she had said thank you I still felt like a toy, being used all the time. Instead of staying there and crying my eyes out like I usually do, I packed and I left. It was the only way I could think of solving this miniscule problem.

I dug into my pocket for my cell phone and dialed my friends phone number. "Can I speak with Jenny, please?"

"Sure. Hold on." the person on the other end of the phone responded.

"Hello!" said Jenny.

"What are you doing right now?" I answered holding back the tears that were burning through my eyes.

"Nothing! What are you doing?" she asked.

"I�m going to your house right now! I�ll see you in twenty minutes." I said, really glad I had a friend like her.

I arrived at her house fifteen to twenty minutes later. I didn�t tell her what had happened or that I actually planned on staying over at her house for a few days. I did tell her I�d had a fight with my mom, but Jenny never asked me any questions after that. I went to work at 5pm and signed out at 9pm as usual. A lady co-worker gave me a ride back to my friend�s house.

By that time my mom had already called my cellphone a thousand times. I never answered it. I was angry with her. Actually, I was scared. I was scared of what would happen if I talked to her. I was also scared because if I didn�t talk to her I would have to find away to explain the whole thing to my friend.

About 9:20pm she arrived at my friend�s house. She had been worried about me. We agreed that since she had to go to work right away, I would just walk home. It was snowing that night. The walk home felt like hours of lonely pain. Tears began running down y cheeks like two overflowing rivers washing the pain and frustration I had felt all day long.

The next day, I had to go out and help out a school club. I didn�t see my mother until later that afternoon. After having a huge lunch with a group of my friends, I came back home. I hesitated at the door, not wanting to see or talk to her. I knew I would brake down in tears. Sooner or later I had to face up to reality. I was about to open the door when the knob started turning.

Behind the door I heard a voice say, "What are you doing out there." Then I had found myself talking back to one of the most important people in my life, my mother.

"Why do you care?"

"Get inside! I want to talk to you!" she responded in an audible voice.

"Are you sure we are going to talk." I said making sure I wasn�t in deep trouble.

"Yes. Now get in." She responded quickly like if someone was listening to our conversation. I hurried inside, and took off my coat and sat down on the nearest chair I could find.

"I don�t want you going out without telling me where you are going to be. If you get hurt in anyway while you are gone, I will be responsible for letting that happen. You had me worried. I love you and I don�t want to see you get hurt, okay. " After saying this, she ran her fingers through my hair reassuring me that she only wanted the best for me.

"I have to go out for a little while, okay. I�ll be back soon," she said and with that she shut the door behind her.

I was dumb founded. I thought I�d be grounded or something. After this moment in time, I had figured out that my mom wasn�t propitious in some of the things I was doing. However, she wasn�t interested in punishing me but that she just wanted to make sure where I was and if I was safe. I had learned my lesson and since then I have tried to keep her informed of where I am.

My mom grew up in Guatemala. She lived in a poor, small town. She had a hard life as a young girl, sister of six sisters and seven brothers. Some of them attended school. My mom, she was estranged from most of her relatives. She was my grandmother�s favorite daughter, even though she never liked to admit it. Instead of going to school, my mom spent most of her days at home helping out with some chores. She also took on small jobs to help out my grandmother with her expenses.

After she gave birth to my brothers, the person who was mostly by her side was my grandmother. They loved each other, perhaps the same way we love each other. Unfortunately my grandmother�s life was cut short. Even after sixteen years, my mom still mourns the day my grandmother�s soul left this her body and this earth. The real reason, aside from the fact that she wanted the best for her children, why she moved to the United States was because a lot of her brothers and sisters blamed her for the death of their loved mother. My mom had lost the person that really mattered to her. Even though she never had the support and comfort of her family she had made it.

The lady I first saw when I was nine years old was a person I looked up to not because I knew her but because in my eyes she was a beautiful, sophisticated woman. I could see myself growing up to be her. Now, she is a woman who never gave up on herself or her three children through all the heartaches this world could bring. All I hope is that God will grant her many years to come and not truncate her life, such as what happened to her mom. In return I will try my best in following her examples. When she leaves, she will always be in my heart and soul.