I can barely breathe. As I feel the whoosh whoosh of my seemingly scarce breaths, I want to tell you a story. My story. I was born with 8 siblings, and our mom was a single mom. She didn't ever tell us about our dad, and we never pestered her, as she was good enough for both. She would give us all we needed, keep us warm and happy. She was the main focus in our lives, we would do whatever she asked, and she rarely, if ever, was wrong. Though she wasn't a very emotional woman, I knew she loved me a little better than my siblings. Maybe because I was a little weak at times, got a cold and fever too often. I still remember how once when we were kids, and others were ridiculing me for feeling cold all the time, she had bought a new blanket, a unique one, made by an old woman who was the only obstetrician and also a magic-worker in my mom's village. She had silently walked in while we tossed and turned in our sleep, and covered me with it, and I don't think I ever felt more