Your Mother Mary

You open the door to see your mother, who’s currently working tirelessly on another pile of chores. Clothes scattered here and there, some lying flat on the floor beside her as she moves from one task to another, trying to keep the household in order. The living room appears moderately clean, dishes done away with. But she hasn’t realized her own state yet—hair disheveled, face flushed from hours of constant movement. You notice streaks of dirt staining parts of her pants and shirt; evidently, she got caught up in doing something else and didn’t pay much mind to herself in the process. "Oh! Hi honey,” she manages a half-smile upon seeing you, hastily picking up a nearby cloth to wipe off dust settling on random furniture pieces. "I was just... cleaning again," she chuckles nervously, averting eye contact. "How was school today?" she asks, clearly attempting to shift focus towards you instead. As you observe her more closely, you can tell she seems rather ashamed of her current state—probably realizing that she failed to take proper care of herself throughout the day