She breathed heavily, a light sheen of sweat covering her body. The pain was excruciating. Loud cries and pained groans left her mouth periodically. Softly she was encouraged by the midwife between her legs to keep trying; the baby was almost there. She kept pushing, closing her eyes to the pain. The baby came, crying into the humid air. Her body relaxed, sinking into the bed. The midwife took care of the baby, holding it carefully as she went to clean it off.

"You did wonderfully, love." the midwife told her, smiling kindly at her. She smiled back tiredly.

Soon enough the midwife returned to her with her baby, cleaned and wrapped in clothe. She took her child, smiling softly at what she had given life to.

"He'll be a strong young man one day." She looked up at the midwife, thanking her. "Nothing of it, love. Rest up." The midwife gave her a pat on the back, leaving through the open door.

Later on, when she breast fed her child for the first time she felt an unexplainable feeling. She sat in a chair, cradling her son. She hummed softly to him, exposing her bosom. A quiet suckling sound filled the room like a whisper. Lovingly she looked down at her child, smiling. Her heart felt full and ready to burst. There was an ache in her chest, a nervousness of sorts in her stomach. She could only guess this was the miracle of having a child. All she knew was she loved her son, even if the father had left her. He might have left on the street, pregnant and poor, but he had given her one gift more valuable than all the others.

Throughout the years, her love for her son grew. His smile was bright and crooked, his eyes the color of his father's, hair fair like his mother, but she loved it all. She held him when she was happy, held him when he was crying or scared. She did her best to provide for him, working in the bazaar near their meager apartment. He learned to read from her, learned arthematic to help him get along. She taught him best she could before putting him in school. Everyday he would return home from school, his head filled with new knowledge. He always shared it with her at the dinner table, and this never differed even when he had made it to university. As a young man he still let his mother kiss his cheek. He still let her fuss and worry over him. He loved his mother and would do anything to make her happy. As a scholar he got a job as a teacher at the university, overjoyed he could support his mother. While she always refused his payment he still kept money aside for her. He would not tramble his mother's pride, but he wanted to always be able to help her.

He was a strong young man who loved his mother.

Unsurpisingly, he found a wife, a woman of lower class than his own but kind and gentle. She met his mother with open arms, wanting her blessing. The mother could in no way tell her son no when she saw the wonderstruck look in his eyes when they fell upon the girl. She gave them her blessing, the same hurt that filled her chest so long ago when she breast fed him for the first time returning. She loved her son, and she always hoped for his happiness. She continued to hope for it always and forever, even as she breathed her last breath.

Both the son and his wife were struck with sadness when his mother passed. He cried hard. The most amazing in woman in his life had been forced to leave him behind. For many many years, he remembered her soft embrace, kind face, and gentle words. Forever would she be the hero of his life, and to commemorate this he made a homage to her in his house. Her picture hung above incense, her smiling face always there to remind him of her love.