In October 2010, I left my hometown and family in Virginia and moved to Iowa so I could be coached by Liang Chow. I'd been dreaming of an Olympic gold medal since I was eight -- but gradually, that dream seemed like a million miles away.  On January 2, 2012, while Mom was visiting me in Iowa, I told her, "I don't like gymnastics anymore. I want to try dancing, or become a singer. I can get a job in Virginia. I just want to come home."  Mom's eyes narrowed and her expression turned to stone. "You're breaking my heart, Brie," she said. "You've been doing gymnastics for ten years, and now you want to quit? Have you lost your mind?" I hadn't lost my mind, but I had lost my fire. It's an entirely different thing to push toward that dream when you feel alone. "I'm not trying to break your heart, Mom," I said. "I just don't want to do it anymore." "I know you miss home. But you've signed a contract that says you will represent your country to the best of your ability. You've got a responsibility to your teammates. And now you just want to walk away? I will not let you be dishonorable. If you don't like gymnastics, then at the very least, you will finish the season." The next afternoon as I dragged myself into Chow's gym, I thought of the efforts Mom had made in order to pay for my training. I thought of my two sisters: Arielle, who gave up ballroom dancing, and Joyelle, who stopped ice skating so that our single mom could afford to keep me in gymnastics. For now, here's what you need to know: Exactly 210 days before I ever attempted my first vault   in the London Summer Olympics, my leap of faith came this close to ending in a crash of disaster. How did the author's mother feel on hearing her words?
Heart-broken. Sympathetic. Helpless. Calm.
Question: In October 2010, I left my hometown and family in Virginia and moved to Iowa so I could be coached by Liang Chow. I'd been dreaming of an Olympic gold medal since I was eight -- but gradually, that dream seemed like a million miles away.  On January 2, 2012, while Mom was visiting me in Iowa, I told her, "I don't like gymnastics anymore. I want to try dancing, or become a singer. I can get a job in Virginia. I just want to come home."  Mom's eyes narrowed and her expression turned to stone. "You're breaking my heart, Brie," she said. "You've been doing gymnastics for ten years, and now you want to quit? Have you lost your mind?" I hadn't lost my mind, but I had lost my fire. It's an entirely different thing to push toward that dream when you feel alone. "I'm not trying to break your heart, Mom," I said. "I just don't want to do it anymore." "I know you miss home. But you've signed a contract that says you will represent your country to the best of your ability. You've got a responsibility to your teammates. And now you just want to walk away? I will not let you be dishonorable. If you don't like gymnastics, then at the very least, you will finish the season." The next afternoon as I dragged myself into Chow's gym, I thought of the efforts Mom had made in order to pay for my training. I thought of my two sisters: Arielle, who gave up ballroom dancing, and Joyelle, who stopped ice skating so that our single mom could afford to keep me in gymnastics. For now, here's what you need to know: Exactly 210 days before I ever attempted my first vault   in the London Summer Olympics, my leap of faith came this close to ending in a crash of disaster. How did the author's mother feel on hearing her words?
A. Heart-broken.
B. Sympathetic.
C. Helpless.
D. Calm.
Answer: