My mother died recently in Cuba. The news did not arrive by surprise; her health had deteriorated during the weeks before her passing and I was aware of her condition: complications of advanced age. She met her end in her home, on her bed, and surrounded by family and friends; I was not there. When I received the news of her death I was sad and stricken by grief, "my mother has died". I told my daughters and they cried; perhaps the death of my mother reminded them of the death of their own mother. The next day I had time to think about what my mother meant to me. "Did she love me? Of course, I have no doubt! Did I love her back? Yes; in my ways, but I can not ignore that what I am today she helped me forge. Do I feel pity for her?" What you are about to read, my version, only one other person in the world knows and that is my wife. I dare to write these stories because perhaps my daughters will read them and they will come to understand dad's ways. One