Page 2 of Damián

Twenty minutes later, I reach the suburbs, and the city feels a world away.

I park in front of a beautiful two-story house with a swing, two apple trees, and a blue front door. That door took me four damn coats to get the “perfect” shade, but I have to admit, it looks pretty cool.

I hop off the bike, smoothing my jacket and checking my reflection in Chiquita’s mirror. I run my fingers through my stubble and then through my brown hair to fix the mess the helmet left behind. My hair isn’t even long, but for some damn reason, the helmet’s padding always makes it look like a camel chewed on it.

Finally happy with the result, I run over to the neighbor’s prize-winning garden and steal the three prettiest roses I see.

Gift in hand, I scurry back to the house, unlock the blue door, and step inside. “Honey, I’m home!”

“In the kitchen, mijo!” she says, her voice barely audible over the music.

Aaahhh! The house smells delicious! Like a perfect blend of baking apples, cinnamon, roasted meat, and the familiar tang of lemon floor polish.

Dios, I’m so hungry.

I follow the music through the hallway, its walls lined with frames and drawings holding a lifetime of memories. I walk into the kitchen where I see her dancing, and I smile… a real smile this time, one that actually reaches my eyes and touches my heart.

Ana María Soto, my mom, turns from the stove, her face lighting up the second she sees me. She pulls me into a tight hug, squeezing me hard, and I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the mix of floral shampoo and spices.

Don’t ask me how, but she has smelled exactly the same way since I was a boy.

“Mijo! I thought you’d be late.”

“And miss my mamá’s cooking? Never.” I pull back and present the flowers with a dramatic ta-da! “I brought you these. From a secret admirer.”

She laughs and glares at me at the same time. “You need to stop stealing from Mrs. Brown’s bushes. One day, she will call the police on you, and I will not bail you out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, faking innocence as I steal a tostón.

“Stop eating while standing up.”

“Is Fernanda coming?”

“No, mijo, she had to take a double shift.”

“What do you mean by ‘had to’? I already set her up with an account with enough money for the year.”

“I told her, but you know your sister. She wants to save all that for a rainy day.”

“So what if she uses it? If it pours, I’ll send her more.”

“Dios mío, she is stubborn, you are stubborn. I’m not getting in the middle.” She points at a big pot. “Now help me get that to the table so we can eat.”

“Fine.”

We sit at the large dining table, covered with enough food for ten starving guests. My mom pushes a plate of pernil toward me and passes me a serving fork. It looks so amazing, I can even see the roasted pork skin crackling.

“Are we expecting to feed a football team?”

“It is all for you, mijo. You need to eat more. You look thin.”

“Ma,” I laugh, filling my plate with rice, beans, and two large servings of pork. “I’m almost twice your size. Besides, this is all lean, soldier muscle.”

“Ay, of course… The soldier has spoken.”

“Here,” I say, sliding the plate toward her. “I left you the crunchy part. I know it’s your favorite.”

“Thanks. By the way, your sister sent a video of Carlitos. Look at this.” She unlocks her phone and plays a clip of my nephew, a three-year-old kid with wild dark hair and light brown eyes like my mom’s and mine.