Mother’s definition of happiness is the realistic kind, the simplest, the purest. We grew up learning to enjoy simple, authentic things. We learned to be thankful for the roof we slept under, the food we had, the beds we slept in each night. She lived, satisfying herself with what she had, with what was brought and given to her in the name of God. And that’s how she taught us. That life is good because we can walk and breathe and live in a world that is not necessarily kind, not necessarily giving. We admired mother’s ability to accept the good and the bad, the worst and the best, the right and the wrong. But we came to find the ideal happiness. The one that is never quite reachable, never quite achievable. We learned to want more, want the things we couldn’t have, the things we wished to have. We tell mother we are not happy but she doesn’t understand. She is still happy with the one pair of jeans she owns, the one gold ring she wears. We have grown up and America has opened our eyes to dreams, possibilities, an eternal bliss that we must somehow conquer.