It's my birthday. Thanks, Mom.

My mom was raised by bakers, and worked in the family bakery after school, kneading and measuring and doing baking things, which means I grew up eating brownies, the best brownies. 

She put herself through college, working at a dime store, a bank, a truck stop. It was the late 60s, and she was cute and small at 5-feet-3, with long, dark, soup-can-straightened hair parted down the middle and grey-green eyes, and she tells stories of sassing handsy truck drivers. 

She's fond of saying "We're born, we make our choices, we suffer, then we die." If anyone is in charge, it's probably her. As a kid, I got squirmy when she asserted her place in line, saying "I'm next" and holding up her little hand when other people tried to cut. Now I do it. 

In the summer, when she wasn't teaching high school students about the symbolism in The Awakening and The Handmaid's Tale, she read J.A. Jance novels. Her powers of prediction are uncanny when it comes to mystery stories, and she doesn't give a rip about spoilers. She always wants to know the end, if for no other reason than to confirm her flawless logic. 

She made dinner for the family every night, no buts about it. When I was little, we ate from quintessential 1970s dishware, Noritake Folkstone in a pattern called Orinda. Earlier this year, Mom and I split the set. 

She is the strongest woman I know.