My mother was French Protestant, and my father was Italian Catholic, and their union was an excess of God, guilt and sauce.
My mother was French Protestant, and my father was Italian Catholic, and their union was an excess of God, guilt and sauce.
His father, who for years had refused to speak to Eddie, now lacked the strength to even try. He watched his son with heavy-lidded eyes. Eddie, after struggling to find even one sentence to say, did the only thing he could think of to do: He held up his hands and showed his father his grease-stained fingertips.
Sacrifice is a part of life. It's supposed to be. It's not something to regret. It's something to aspire to. Little sacrifices. Big sacrifices. A mother works so her son can go to school. A daughter moves home to take care of her sick father.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories