Empty
This is not what she wishes for her children, though she is young enough to be considered a child herself. She traded her home for a foreign country, for a mindset that revolves around itself. Little does she know of the hate that will be spewed back to her because of the tilt of her eyes or the color of her skin.
Don't worry. She'll practice until her accent is gone, and she'll be praised: "your English is so good." She believes, firmly, that because her children will be born here, they will have inherited the land as well. It will be theirs. They will never feel meek or undeserving; they won't cower like their parents, accepting each sharpened word, letting cold shoulders and harsh shoves pass with the wind because they did not come here like she did.
She is nineteen, and he is twenty-two. I am still in her womb. She doesn't know what to do. She was raised (and degraded) in a strictly devout Catholic family. He is also of her kind; the same who spew hate insist they look like siblings; you all look the same now, don't you? But, he doesn't know. It's not the same. He left their home when he was still a boy. He grew up here; he was accustomed to this land. To her, it still gawked at her, asked her to move to the side, constantly reminded her she took up too much space.
She places a hand atop her belly, atop me. It will be okay, it will be okay. She will tell me this when I am older, when I question the intentions of my origin. She takes a breath. This is the sacrifice; this is what she will give to me, to us, for us to grow. We shall never hunger. We never did hunger. Because of her.
She rubs her belly once more. She looks up and smiles.
"Let's eat."