When I walk through the door of my parents’ place in Boyle Heights, warmth, spice, and memory rise up to greet me—a benediction made of home itself.
Incense. Garlic and cumin. Stew simmering on the stove. Cilantro.
“Mija!”
My father comes out of the kitchen in his apron, wooden spoon still in hand, and before I can even set down my suitcase, I’m in his arms.
Papi is all herbs and spices. I bury my face in his shoulder, breathe him in.
“What are you doing here?” He draws back to look at me. “You’ve been crying.”
At his words, tears start to stream down my face…again.
“Estrella,” he calls out to mymother. “Marisol.”
Mama takes one look at me and steers me away from Papi to the living room. I lean into her as we sit on the couch that has seen many tears. She strokes my hair the way she used to when I was little, after I scraped my knee or failed a test.
“Ay, corazón.” She tilts her head, looking critically at me. “You’ve lost weight. Paris didn’t feed you?”
I choke out a laugh that’s half a sob. “Not like Papi.”
Mama clucks her tongue. “You need food. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“Mama, I’m?—”
“Eat first, heartbreak later,” she declares.
She knows. She knows, and she doesn’t judge. She only loves. This is what I need.
I’m ushered into the kitchen, where the table is covered in bowls and cutting boards. Marisol comes in, scowling.
“Who died? Why is everyone screaming?Tara,” she cries out, and then I’m in her arms.
“Dios mio!” She looks at my blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes. “You look like you fought a war.”
“I did,” I whisper. “And I lost.”
Marisol squeezes my shoulders before pushing me gently toward a chair. “Then sit, General. Let’s feed you before you tell us what went wrong.”
Papi gives me one of his big, calm smiles. “I was going to make empanadas for Sunday, but we needcaldo?*…now.”
“We do,” Mama agrees.
We’re a Mexican household, and Papi believes, from the bottom of his heart, that almost everything can be solved with good food.
While Papi cooks, we all sit at the kitchen island. I tell them everything.
How it started.
How it exploded.
How it ended.
I don’t leave any raw, humiliating detail out—the articles, the accusations, the way Gustave looked at me like I was something dirty.
When I finish, there’s silence except for the hum of the fridge.
“So…I came home,” I say haplessly.
