Or a battlefield.
“¿Está bien?” the waitress asks when she passes.
Is everything good?
I look up at her.
And something soft finally breaks through the steel I’ve been holding all day.
“Sí,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Está… perfecto.”
Yes… it’s perfect.
She smiles.
Starts to walk away.
Then I add?—
“Me hace sentir como en casa.”
It makes me feel like home.
That makes her pause.
She turns back.
“¿De dónde eres, mija?”
Where are you from, sweetheart?
“De California… pero mi mamá es de México.”
From California… but my mom is from Mexico.
She nods like she understands everything I didn’t say.
“Se nota,” she says gently.
I can tell.
I smile.
Small.
Real.
“Cocina como esto,” I add, gesturing to the plate. “Igualito.”
She cooks like this… exactly like this.
Her smile deepens.
“Entonces sí es casa.”
Then it really is home.
Then she walks away.
