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    At thirteen, I was diagnosed(诊断) with kind of attention disorder. It made school difficult for me. When everyone else in the class was focusing on tasks, I could not.

    In my first literature class, Mrs. Smith asked us to read a story and then write on it, all within 45 minutes. I raised my hand right away and said, “Mrs. Smith, you see, the doctor said I have attention problems. I might not be able to do it.”

    She glanced down at me through her glasses, “You are not different from your classmates, young man.”

    I tried, but I didn't finish the reading when the bell rang. I had to take it home. In the quietness of my bedroom, the story suddenly all became clear to me. It was about a blind person, Louis Braille. He lived in a time when the blind couldn't get much education. But Louis didn't give up. Instead, he invented a reading system of raised dots(点), which opened up a whole new world of knowledge to the blind.

    Wasn't I the “blind” in my class, being made to learn like the “sighted” students? My thoughts spilled out and my pen started to dance. I completed the task within 40 minutes. Indeed, I was no different from others; I just needed a quieter place. If Louis could find his way out of his problems, why should I ever give up?

    I didn't expect anything when I handled in my paper to Mrs. Smith, so it was quite a surprise when it came back to me the next day- with an “A” on it. At the bottom of the paper were these words: “See what you can do when you keep trying?”

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    Someone had given our name and phone number to a charity, and its staff were bringing us Christmas presents.

    I made sure the house was as spotless as it could be with four children living in it, as the due time drew near, I sat on the edge of the couch. Each time I heard a car, I jumped up to see if they were here. Each time it wasn't them, I was relieved, yet disappointed.

    Finally a huge car pulled into the driveway, and four people got out. Now I was embarrassed as well as grateful, excited and nervous. I greeted them with a smile. They made several trips and soon my living room was full of boxes and bags.

    I tried to say “thank you” but my throat suddenly closed up and tears welled up in my eyes.

    I watched through the window as they drove away, wondering what they thought of me. I had always donated, but not received. We weren't always like this. My husband had been out of work, and we were struggling. I'd wanted to say this to them, but the words wouldn't come out.

    I quickly put away the gifts before the school-aged children came home. I hid them in closets and under beds as quickly as I could. On Christmas morning I felt a little guilty as our four children tore open the boxes and bags with pleasure, thinking they were from us.

    My nine-year-old son opened a game box and taped inside the lid was an envelope. I opened it and read aloud: May the joy of Christmas be with you all through the year. At the bottom of the card, written in small, neat letters was a sentence, it said: Although the sea gets rough, no storm lasts forever.

    I was suddenly ashamed of being ashamed. I finally understood.