“So what do you eat?”
“Take out sometimes, or salads.Sometimes Caleb cooks.”
My mother has moved on to slicing meat now, and her hand holding the knife pauses.“Why didn’t you tell me you have no food?I would have sent you some meals.”
I don’t respond for a moment, and then I mumble, “I didn’t know you would.”
“If you had told me, I would have.”She sounds angry now, but the anger doesn’t seem to be directed at me.“You will pick up food on Sundays, or I will have one of your brothers drop it to your home.”The decision has been made for me.I don’t mind.
“Okay.”With an afterthought, I add, “Thanks.”
I watch her cook in silence.I don’t offer to help and she doesn’t ask.I pour her a class of red wine, though, and she smiles, another thing that is new.
As the meals come together, I realize they are my favorite foods.I wonder if it’s a coincidence or if she remembered.She must have seen the question in my eyes because she says quietly, “You are my child,mija.I remember what you like and dislike.”
“You never make any of this for Sunday dinners when I come, so I thought you forgot what I like,” I comment.“You’ve always remembered for everyone else.”
My mother pauses again, and her voice is strained.“I have not been a good mother to you,mija.I know.”I should feel guilty telling my own mother she’s not done a good job, but I feel numb.I don’t know how to handle this side of her.
“Sit down and eat,” she says, ladling something that smells like heaven into a bowl.
I take the bowl with shaking hands, staring down at what I realize is my favorite childhood dish—the one she used to make when I was sick or sad or just because I asked.The one I thought she’d forgotten I loved.
The first spoonful tastes like forgiveness.
The second feels like home.
By the third, my hand is shaking because I’m crying.
My mother takes the bowl from me and holds me in her arms as I sob.I don’t know why I’m crying.The tears just don’t stop.I’ve always held myself together so tightly, knowing there will never be anyone to catch me if I fall, knowing I cannot depend on anyone.Until Caleb walked into my life and held me up, I’ve never had any kind of support, didn’t know I could have someone I could lean against.
But as my mother holds me, this feels different.I feel raw and exposed, vulnerable in a way I have never allowed myself to be since before my father passed.Her arms tighten around me, and for a minute, I let myself believe things will be fine, that we will be fine.
Iwake to the sound of pans clattering in the kitchen.For a moment, I’m disoriented.The smell of something frying—eggs, maybe chorizo—drifts through the apartment, and I sit up slowly, my heart doing this strange flutter in my chest.My mother is here.In my kitchen.Cooking.
I pad out to the doorway in my sleep shirt and shorts, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and I just stand there.Watching.
She moves around my small kitchen, her back to me, shoulders squared in that way she has—like she’s bracing against the world even when she’s just making breakfast.Her hair is pulled back in a loose bun, a few gray strands catching the morning light.She’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday, and I wonder if she slept at all or if she just waited for dawn to do something useful.
The pan sizzles.She flips something with that same quick flick of her wrist I’ve watched since I was small enough to stand on a chair beside her.
I don’t know what to do with my hands.I don’t know what to do with myself.She must sense me standing there because she glances over her shoulder, and our eyes meet for half a second before I look away.
“Come eat,” she says.It’s not a question but a command.However it’s softer than I’m used to from her.
I move to the table like I’m walking through water, everything slow and uncertain.I pull out a chair and sit, my hands folded in my lap.The table is already set—two plates, forks, napkins.She’s even found the salsa I keep in the back of the fridge.
She brings over a platter piled high with scrambled eggs, fried plantains, refried beans, tortillas warming in a cloth.More food than two people could possibly eat.She sets it down and takes the seat across from me, and immediately she starts loading my plate.A huge scoop of eggs.
“Mamá, you should eat, too,” I say, reaching for the serving spoon.“I can do it myself.”
She waves my hand away and adds three plantains to my plate.“I will.Eat.”
“Really, I?—”
She’s already up again, moving back to the kitchen.I hear the fridge open, close.She returns with orange juice and pours me a glass without asking if I want any.
“Is this warm enough?”she asks, gesturing to the eggs.“I can heat it more.”
