In my cake, I find the golden coin on the very first spoonful. I don’t even need to look anymore.
My mother cheers and winks at me.
“Happy New Year, my love.”
She hugs me, takes the coin, rubs it in my palm, and slips it into my right pocket.
“Happy New Year, Mom. Thank you,” I say, hugging her back, emotional.
Little by little, others find their coins and raise them in the air, celebrated by everyone for their good fortune.
I sit and take another spoonful of my cake—and to my surprise, I find another coin.
I laugh, quickly hiding it, thinking my mother must have missed one by accident. But when I stir the jar a few more times, I find another. And another.
A coin with every spoonful.
“Mom!” I protest, realizing she did it on purpose as Rosa laughs exaggeratedly at the confusion on my face. “You hid coins in every square!”
“You can’t gamble with luck, Nina. Sometimes you have to give it a little help,” she admits without a shred of shame.
“Didn’t I say she was cheating?” Rosario accuses, making us all laugh again.
***
“I’m exhausted!” I exclaim as I close the shop door behind us, happy to finally kick off my shoes and get home.
“Me too, my dear. It was a long day—but such a beautiful one,” she replies, walking beside me.
“The light show on the water was incredible. Almost thirteen minutes—they outdid themselves, don’t you think?” I ask, smiling as I remember the colors and shapes paired with the fireworks cascading down.
“Without a doubt. Every year it gets better,” she agrees, dropping her coat in the living room and stretching her back, just as tired as I am.
“Happy New Year, Mom,” I say, stopping to hug her.
“Happy New Year, my daughter,” she replies, hugging me back before disappearing into her room.
Quietly, I go into mine and grab her present—the one I spent months preparing, and which had become nearly impossible to keep hidden.
“Mom, I have a gift for you,” I announce excitedly.
“You didn’t have to, Nina,” she says, already taking the large package from my hands.
She unwraps it carelessly, revealing a tea sampler I gathered, dried, and sewed myself—bag by bag. Each square compartment of the little birdhouse-shaped box is lined with a different fabric texture.
My mother touches the large labels on each little window, reading the instructions out loud, enchanted.
“‘Drink me in case of anxiety.’ ‘Drink me when you’re tired.’ ‘Headache? It’s my turn!’ ‘Chew without making a face.’” She laughs at the funny-shaped ginger root.
Beneath each sachet, a parchment tied with a silk ribbon holds the preparation instructions—whether it should be boiled, steeped, crushed, or used whole.
“Oh, Nina, this is so delicate,” she says, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Mom,” I ask, sitting beside her. “I just wanted to give back a little of everything you do for me. This is nothing,” I promise.
“You are everything I need, Nina,” she repeats—the sentence I’ve heard my entire life.
I hug her as she thanks me again.
