WHAT MY TREMORS DON’T SAY ABOUT ME - PART III

The Sweetest Cup of Coffee

My tremors don’t say anything about the kind of mother I am—except that I’m raising children who see difference as normal and kindness as instinct.

Because of cerebral palsy, my hand tremors can turn the simplest tasks—pouring coffee, buttoning a shirt, holding a pen—into moments that require extra patience, focus, and perseverance. What the world may see as effortless often calls on creativity, resilience, and steady determination from me.

And in those moments, my daughter’s calm, capable hands step in—quietly reminding me, with overwhelming pride, that I’m raising a child who leads with empathy, confidence, and love.

That Saturday morning, sitting in a restaurant before a day packed with sports, practices, and nonstop running from one place to the next, my hands were shaking more than usual. But I needed coffee if I was going to survive the schedule ahead.

The tiny plastic creamer—standard issue at every restaurant—might as well have come with a warning label: Good luck, Marina.

I picked it up struggling to tear the top of all the while my hands squeezing it as if I was attempting to pop it open; an involuntary Cerebral Palsy spasm.  It exploded and I tried once more.
Second time, I was able to calm my tremors enough to open the top, but missed the cup entirely for my hands had other plans. A little splash on the saucer—but none in my cup.

My tremors were clearly winning this round.

I let out one of those quiet, tired sighs you hope no one notices.

Before I could say a word, my daughter slid her chair closer. No announcement. No hesitation. Just a small hand reaching out with very practiced confidence.

“I got it, Mom.”

She poured the cream. Then the sugar. Gave the cup a gentle stir—like this was the most ordinary thing in the world. Because to her, it was.

I smiled. Because in our world, it was ordinary.

We went right back to talking about her soccer game after breakfast and how excited she was to “dominate the field.” I asked my youngest if she was ready to hop, skip, and flip her way through gymnastics once the game was over. We laughed. We planned. We were simply a family—unaware that someone else had been watching.

When the check came and I reached for my wallet, our server paused and smiled softly.

“A gentleman at the counter took care of your breakfast,” she said. “He said watching your daughter help you made his day.”

That’s when I felt it—that quiet lump in your throat.

Not because of the money.
But because of what he saw.

He didn’t see struggle.
He didn’t see disability.

He saw love. He saw patience. He saw a child learning empathy—not from a lecture, but from life.

That cup of coffee tasted sweeter than usual. Not because of the cream or sugar—but because, in a noisy restaurant on an ordinary morning, a stranger reminded me that kindness still notices the small things.

And that small moment reminded me of something even bigger: how important it is to raise children with empathy instead of judgment, with instinctive help instead of annoyance, and with quiet confidence—rather than loud “watch me be kind” moments.

Because sometimes, the most powerful lessons are the ones our children never even realize they’re teaching complete strangers.