The mother and child stand in line in front of me at the fast food restaurant waiting to place their order. The child leans slightly against her mother with her hand on her mother’s arm. In her other hand the child clutches a red plastic toy boat.

With the practice ease of an experienced mother, the woman places her hand on her child’s arm to signal that they are going to move so the child won’t lose her balance. This type of mother-child interaction is commonplace; we see it all around us every day. It’s just a normal part of a mother’s day.

Yet, there is something less usual about this mother and daughter. The mother has the lined face and gray hair of a woman in her sixties. The daughter, as tall as her mother, has traces of grey in her own short brown hair. Her body may look like that of a mature woman, but her childlike actions are similar to a well-behaved preschooler. No wonder this mother seems so practiced: she has been mothering this preschooler for about forty years.

Balancing the tray with one hand, the mother guides her daughter to a booth near the window. The child settles into the chocolate brown cushion and puts her toy boat down beside her on the tan plastic-coated tabletop. The mother unwraps the burger and places it on the table before her daughter and carries on a dialogue as she prepares her daughter’s food.

“Are you hungry?” She looks up at her child to gauge her unspoken body language. “Here you are; your hamburger is ready. Doesn’t it smell good?”

The child waits. She looks up at her mother with expectation and smiles as their eyes meet, but she never speaks.

The mother takes the lid from her coffee and pours a small amount into another cup and adds milk and sugar. She stirs the milky liquid, checks the temperature, and places the half-full cup in front of her daughter.

“Be careful not to spill it.”

The mother and I make eye contact. We smile. I feel a kinship with this woman. I too have spoken those words many times.

As I sit at a nearby table, I wonder at this mother’s woman’s courage. She has lived with the grief of what might have been for so many years. She must worry about what will happen to her daughter after she is gone. Yet none of that is evident at this moment. What is evident is that she is a loving, patient mother who treats her child with dignity. The faces of both mother and child radiate peace and contentment as they relax at the table soaking in the warm sunshine. They seem quietly contented in each other’s familiar company.

I am in a hurry. I have to pick-up my son from school, make dinner, supervise his homework, do other things I can’t quite remember but which nag at me. I know, however, that at some point I will not need to do these things. My son will grow up and I will revel in his independence, and my own.

As I leave the restaurant, I catch one final glance of the mother. She is waiting patiently for her child to finish her lunch.

I have carried this image with me for years, through children and grandchildren. My thoughts return often to it—to her.

She has been my symbol, my touchstone, of the endless devotion of mothers everywhere: caring for her child, performing a multitude of mundane tasks, for as long as she will live. Her quiet courage should not go unnoticed or untold.

She is the everlasting mother. And my inspiration.