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Do they still sometimes refer to Christina as Mamá’s friend and not her wife? Yeah. I’m not thrilled to say it took me a while to come around to Christina too. It wasn’t that she was a woman; it was that she wasn’t my papá. Regardless of the borderline hostile way he treated my mamá, their relationship and their presence was what I knew; it's what I was comfortable with. As a kid, I didn’t realize that comfort was just my conditioning and lack of knowledge on how a healthy parental relationship should work. That's all I knew. It wasn’t until I was in the sixth grade that I finally saw Christina as a parent rather than Not My Dad.
Secretly, there’s still a part of me that wishes my bio parents were still together. I know that’s fucked up to say given the way he treated her, but a childish part of me still thinks I could have done something to prevent them from separating. Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t trade mom for anything in the world—she’s the best and she’s exactly what Mamá needs. But there’s still a feeling of you can fix this that I harbor for my mamá and papá.
If I just did better at school.
If I just worked more efficiently.
If I just made more money.
If I just listened to his advice.
Maybe then I could make my dad proud. Proud enough to earn an elusive te amo. My father’s love is hard-won, but possible.
“Mijo,” Mamá sighs, wiping her hands on a tea towel and turning to face me. “Have you grown since I saw you?”
“Since my housewarming party?” I raise an eyebrow. “That was last weekend.”
“I know. But I swear you’re taller every time I see you.”
I know my moms were there at the beginning, but I have no idea when they left. Better to leave that stone unturned. I don’t want them to know as much as our friends already do. If my mamá even gets a whiff of scandal, she’s like a hound dog—relentlessly chasing the scent until she finds the evidence.
Releasing from her hold, I turn to see Angie helping Mom set the table, so I grab the silverware and head over.
Once we’re all situated, Mamá says grace, immediately followed by our wine glasses clinking. Like always, the conversation never dies or has a lull. Mom tells us about the last concert she coordinated at the Wells Fargo Center, and mamá tells us about how she’s thinking of retiring in the next year or so—to which I twitch with excitement. I’ve been my parents’ financial advisor for the last ten years and I know she’s been hesitant to pull the trigger, so this is huge.
Sitting next to me, Angie sniffles, causing me to look in her direction. “I’m sorry,” she says, dabbing her cloth napkin to her tear-streaked face. “That’s incredible news, Ana. But these tamales,” she shakes her head and lets out a little whistle.
“Oh no, mija. Are they too spicy?”
“No, no!” Angie replies quickly. “They’re perfect. Pica rico. You know it’s good when it’s so spicy it makes you cry.”
Mamá smiles with a worried look, because she knows how freakish Angie can be about her spicy food, but it also encourages Mamá to pile more on our plates. Way more food than a normal person should eat in one sitting.
“That reminds me,” Mamá says, sitting back and placing her hand on Mom’s shoulder next to her. “We’re going back home for Fernanda’s college graduation in May. Do you two want to come with us?”
By home, she means Guanajuato, Mexico, where most of my family lives. Both sides. I love visiting them and the city is stunning. Between the rolling cliffsides overlooking a vibrant city to the culture, architecture, and energy this place exudes, it’s no wonder we try to go back at least twice a year. Angie included.
Always included.
I’ve never taken anyone else. Certainly not someone I was casually seeing, which is anyone I’ve ever “dated.” I don’t know what you’d call how I date other people. Interludes? It’s something between a one-night stand and a fling. Nothing lasts more than a month and that’s by design.
“I’d love to go,” Angie says. “Fernanda is wild. I wanna see who is willingly giving her a bachelor’s degree.”
My excitement dies down when I remember. “I can’t,” I sigh. “Rugby playoffs are at the beginning of May, and if we win it all, it’ll seep into the end of May.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Angie drawls. “Well, I don’t want to miss any of those games either. Who’s going to bring orange slices for the players?”
I huff a laugh. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“The guys love it!”
“They love adding the slice to their beers after the game.”
“They’ve come to expect it from me,” she says seriously. “I cannot disappoint them.”
She’s so funny. “So that’s a no?” Mamá asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “We’ll plan another trip soon, I promise.”
