“Mothers always sacrifice and wastes her life for their children. that's why I ask her to participate even more than youth.”

— Abdel Fattah el-Sisi

Remarks by el-Sisi asking Egyptian women to go vote on the referendum during a cultural symposium organized by MOD Department of Moral Affairs on 11 January 2014 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1w50oWry07E.
2014

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Abdel Fattah el-Sisi 40

Current President of Egypt 1954

Ally Carter (1974) American writer

Source: United We Spy

“My mother whom I adored, secretly wasted away and died of grief…; her death…marked me for life.”

Christian Dior (1905–1957) French fashion designer

Source: Marie France Pochna "Christian Dior: The Man who Made the World Look New", p. 48

“I ask people why they have deer heads on their walls. They always say because it's such a beautiful animal. There you go. I think my mother is attractive, but I have photographs of her.”

Ellen DeGeneres (1958) American stand-up comedian, television host, and actress

“Sacrifice is a part of life. It’s supposed to be. It’s not something to regret. It’s something to aspire to. Little sacrifices. Big sacrifices. A mother works so her son can go to school. A daughter moves home to take care of her sick father.”

Mitch Albom book The Five People You Meet in Heaven

Source: The Five People You Meet in Heaven

“To me she was a woman but to herself she was still a child calling to her mother to hold her hand and help her. And her own mother, in the secret life we do not see, was a child too. I come from a line of children without end.”

J.M. Coetzee book Life & Times of Michael K

Life & Times of Michael K (1983)
Context: He closed his eyes and tried to recover in his imagination the mudbrick walls and reed roof of her stories, the garden of prickly pear, the chickens scampering for the feed scattered by the little barefoot girl. And behind that child, in the doorway, her face obscured by shadow, he searched for a second woman, the woman from whom his mother had come into the world. When my mother was dying in the hospital, he thought, when she knew her end was coming, it was not me she looked to but someone who stood behind me: her mother or the ghost of her mother. To me she was a woman but to herself she was still a child calling to her mother to hold her hand and help her. And her own mother, in the secret life we do not see, was a child too. I come from a line of children without end.