My older brother sighs.“I’ll deal with Mamá.Just come tonight.Seven o’clock.And bring something.You know how she gets when people show up empty-handed.”
“What should I bring?”I close my eyes, already knowing I’ve lost the argument.
“That spicy green bean salad you make.The one with the almonds and the pomegranate seeds.It’s her favorite, and maybe if you butter her up with food, you two can actually have a conversation without bloodshed.”
Despite everything, I smile.“Manipulation through culinary excellence.I like it.”
“Whatever works.See you tonight,hermanita.”
After he hangs up, I close my eyes, gathering the courage to face my family.Finally, I get to my feet.
“Alright.You can do this, Eve.She’s your mother, not the lochness monster.”
I pad over to the kitchen, barefoot.
My apartment is all clean lines and expensive touches—grand windows overlooking the Hudson, a leather sectional that cost more than most people’s cars, and artwork that I actually bought instead of inherited.Everything in its place, everything carefully curated to reflect the life I’ve built for myself.
This is the life I always wanted for myself.
My mother never saw the need for her daughters to get anything more than a basic education.Our dreams and goals were irrelevant in front of hers, which were simple and straightforward: secure a good man, get married, and have as many babies as possible.
Unlike my younger sister Gabriella, who is now married with baby number two on the way, I never cared to have a ring on my finger or wear a wedding dress.I wanted to have a job.I wanted to make money that was my own.I wanted to travel.
I wanted freedom.
My father always indulged my dreams, and for a while, while he was still alive, so did my mother.But when he passed away in a workplace accident, my mother changed her mind.Suddenly my dreams became burdens, and I became a difficult child for wanting to study on the weekends rather than learn how to cook food.I became disobedient because I wanted to take a coding boot camp over summer vacation rather than date the boys she was introducing me to.
My mother and I have a hard time seeing eye to eye, but I still miss her.I miss my brothers and my nephews and nieces.
Heart in my throat, I open the fridge and start taking out the ingredients for the salad.Two hours later, I’m standing in my kitchen, with green beans scattered across my marble countertop like tiny green soldiers.The pomegranate seeds glisten like jewels as I fold them into the salad, the scent of toasted almonds filling the air.I seal the salad in a glass container and grab my coat.
The drive to Sunset Park takes forty minutes in Sunday evening traffic, and with each mile that passes, the expensive high-rises give way to row houses and corner bodegas.
This is the Brooklyn I grew up in—loud, chaotic, full of life spilling out onto stoops and fire escapes.As I turn onto my childhood street, I pass the small park where I used to swing until my hands were raw, dreaming of escape and adventure.The basketball court where my brothers taught me to play, insisting I needed to be tough enough to handle myself.The bodega on the corner, where Mr.Chen used to give me free candy when I helped translate for my mother, still has the same faded awning.Some things never change.
My mother’s house sits in the middle of the block, a narrow three-story row house with a small front yard that she has never let overgrow.The red brick facade is exactly the same as when I was little, down to the white trim around the windows that she repaints every spring.Iron bars protect the ground-floor windows—a necessity in this neighborhood, though crime has dropped significantly since I was a kid.
After my father died, everyone expected my mother to sell this house.Too many memories, too many bedrooms for a widow with seven children.But she dug in her heels, determined to raise us in the same house where she’d been happy.
Cars line both sides of the street.Miguel’s beat-up Honda, Antonio’s work truck with “Lopez Construction” painted on the side, Daniel’s motorcycle that makes my mother nervous every time he rides it.My youngest brother Rafael’s car is here, too, which means he drove down from Columbia for dinner.
The warm glow of lights spills from every window, and even from the sidewalk, I can hear music and laughter drifting out into the evening air.Manu Chao plays from someone’s radio, mixing with the sounds of children running around and Antonio’s booming laugh.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, salad container growing heavy in my hands.Through the front window, I can see my sister-in-law Mila setting the table while two small figures—Miguel’s daughters—dart around her legs.My nephew Danny, Marco’s youngest, is visible in the kitchen doorway, probably sneaking tastes of whatever’s cooking.
Home.This should feel like home.
Instead, it feels like stepping into a world I’ve outgrown, where my choices are questioned and my dreams are seen as betrayal.
I take a deep breath of the cold February air and climb the front steps.The moment I ring the doorbell, chaos erupts inside.Footsteps thunder toward the door, and I hear my nephew’s voice yelling, “Tía Eve!Tía Eve is here!”
The door swings open to reveal five-year-old Carlos, Miguel’s son, grinning up at me with a gap-toothed smile.
“Tía!You’re here!Abuela said you might not come but I knew you would!”He launches himself at my legs with the kind of enthusiasm that only small children possess.
“Hey, buddy.”I ruffle his dark hair, my heart automatically softening.“Miss me?”
“So much!I made you a picture!It’s on the fridge with Sofia’s!Come see!”
