As a child in poverty-stricken Pittsburgh, a writer often took his mother’s tenacity for granted. Now a grown man, he realizes the full extent of his mother’s character. She has been through so much heartbreak, yet she continues to shoulder more burdens. The man begins a short story in which he compares his mother to a weightlifter—straining under her load, but always willing to add another ton. He calls his mother, who he now lives hundreds of miles away from, and reads her the passage, eager to hear her opinion. After he recites the piece, she is silent. He can tell she doesn’t like it. She gives a few critiques: it’s too nonchalant about God; she doesn’t like the image of herself as a willing weightlifter; the prose rambles. Mother and son end their conversation after terse goodbyes. Two days later, the man calls his mother. She doesn’t answer. He calls again. Nothing. He gets in touch with his sister and aunt. They contact the superintendent at her apartment building. After minutes of unanswered knocking, he unlocks the door to find that the woman has died. As her son grieves, he considers the depths of his mother’s optimism. She always had love to give, always held out the silent hope that her youngest son would come home from a life sentence in prison, and always kept her door open for her drug-addled grandchildren. He realizes the root of his mother’s reticence the other day on the phone. It wasn’t the story that bothered her, but what he’d said it was about: a man who was scared he wouldn’t survive his mother’s passing. Not only does he have to survive now—he has to bear the weight.