Having been there since day zero, mothers are an important part of their children’s lives. David Schembri speaks to some ‘children’ to hear what legacy their mothers have left in their hearts.

Nadine Noko, designer and illustrator

A very young Nadine Noko with her mother Jane.

In Summer, when I was young I used to go to the library of Sacred Heart School where I used to borrow all the books by Roald Dahl. I remember going to the beach after, where I would read the stories to my mum, Jane.

I particularly remember when I read The Witches to her. My mum spent the whole week looking around at people and asking me “I wonder if she’s a witch?” or “She’s a witch!”, and it made me laugh and scared me at the same time.

My mother used to have a saying – I think she made it up herself – “Ix-xogħol huwa s-sura tal-bniedem” – and she used to use this saying all the time whenever I would try to take a shortcut in my homework or studies.

She disliked laziness or things badly done; she would make me redo things if she felt I could do better. It was the best lesson she taught me. Now, every project I get, whether it is small or large, I always insist on doing the best I can and going through every detail of that project.

My mother passed away almost four years ago so I won’t be doing anything related to Mother’s Day, apart from maybe eating an orange in her honour. She always insisted on eating an orange a day and three boiled eggs a week. After I moved out, whenever I used to get a cold she would tell me, “I guess someone’s not eating her oranges”.

Becky Camilleri, athlete and neuropsychologist

Becky Camilleri (right) with her mother Miriam.

The most memorable times I have shared with my mother, Miriam, are from when she comes to visit me. I moved to Belgium to take a gap year after my bachelor’s degree, and I then moved to Holland for my master’s in neuropsychology, and then to Dublin for my internship. I am now doing a PhD in neuroscience in Padova, Italy.

When she comes to visit, we just treat ourselves and spend some good quality time together. She also makes me feel close to home again especially with her good home-cooked meals; I definitely look forward to the time we spend together on her visits.

My mother is a self-made, successful woman. She always gives her all in everything she does, both in her work life and in being a mother. I learnt a lot through her example.

Another thing which I am very thankful for is that she always supported my athletics career and encouraged me to continue giving my all, no matter what.

My mother has always been there for me, through all the failures and successes. Her advice definitely came as a godsend last summer when, after breaking a national record, I suffered from a very bad knee injury, one which I didn’t think I could ever come back from.

My mother was there for me in every way after that incident; she helped me remain positive and encouraged me not to give up. Ten months later, this month, I competed in my first competition and am very close to qualifying for the Commonwealth Games being held in July. I am very grateful for all the support love and encouragement which she continues to give me.

This Mother’s Day, I know what I’m getting her – another ticket to see to come visit me.

Clare Azzopardi, writer

Photo: Virginia Monteforte

Many of the stories that my mother, Carmen, has told me are included in my last book (and the one that’s still to come), even if they’re foggy or mixed up with many strange events and exaggerations.

But, to tell you the truth (and I’m not sure if you’re interested in the truth or not), my mother’s stories are mostly about when she was still a young woman, working in her father’s Valletta shop. This is a story I have never told before.

My grandfather was a master watchmaker – that’s how he was known – and they had a tiny shop on Zachary Street, Valletta. Before my mother got married, she used to work as a sales girl there, and she remembers this tall, smartly-dressed Englishman who always went around with his hat and cane. He who used to visit the shop twice a year, every time the clock was turned, because he had a pocket watch which was rather special and extremely complicated – according to my mother – and he wasn’t able to adjust the time himself.

The Englishman would only trust his watch to my grandfather, and he would never speak a single word. But my mother would expect him twice a year. He kept going to their shop for many years, until one day she read in an English newspaper that he had died, and that the police had been looking for him for years.

No one knew he was hiding in Malta, and none of the locals knew that he had killed someone or whatever it was he was running away from. Exactly what he had done, my mother never said; she didn’t know, or she doesn’t remember. What she knows is that he was buried in Malta in an unmarked grave, and he therefore couldn’t be taken back to his country. Pity my mother forgot his name.

What I learnt from my mother is never to give up – she fought cancer with my youngest brother, and then she had to fight her own. She never gives up, and that is something I see in her to this very day.