New Home

“That’s it. That’s the last box.” I said to myself, feeling content in my mountain of belongings. My room is so barren now.

I’m not sure why, but I chose to stack my boxes of memories in my room instead of placing them by the door for my brother and I to just grab and go. Subconsciously, I wanted my mom to have one final look at everything she helped create. I wanted her to say adios to her little boy with the trophies and video game posters. But maybe that’s why she refused to help. She doesn’t want to let go and I get that. Goodbyes are never easy.

When my dad passed away, I was too young to remember ball games or to keep ticket stubs to the movies he took me to see. I do, however, remember the hospital visits and being annoyed at spending so much time there. How was I to know that I would be living in an apartment composed of my mom, brother, and myself for the next 23 years? He left us too early, too soon, and too young.

“Eso es todo, mijo?” 

“Si, Mama. I think that’s everything.” 

I could see the pain in her eyes as she scoffs and walks away. Ever so stoically, she stands quiet and tall for everyone under her roof. She was always the shoulder to cry on, never once the cryer looking for the shoulder. At my dad’s funeral, she kept herself together the entire time. Or maybe I didn’t notice because my face was stuck looking at a Gameboy. She refused to let us feel her pain by numbing her sense of hurt. There was no room for weakness or pity in a house that felt so empty. 

“How many times are you going to come and visit?”

“Bro, you know I can’t stay away too long from ma’s lomo saltado.”

It was true. I couldn’t stay away from my mom’s signature meal. I would lick that plate clean! She would always change up her recipe to keep that secret with her. Every time I would try to learn it, I’d be kicked out of the kitchen. Every single time. I knew there was a yellow and green box with a cow figure that she would use. She would mix some spices never using actual measurements, instead por ojo. All I wanted to do was learn how to cook her lomo! 

But if I could be serious, I wanted to know more about her. I never got a chance to know my dad and damn it sucks that my mom never gave me a chance to get to know her either. I wanted to take some of her with me.  She wore all of the household hats and I learned practical things like using apple cider vinegar to clean the kitchen and how to fold a fitted sheet. But to cook, I might as well have been on Master Chef and lose to the guy who couldn’t boil an egg. She was my Gordon Ramsey and she refused to have me in there with her. 

“Mama, que quieres comer? I’ll take us all out!”

“No quiero comer,” she says coldly.

“No quieres comer, right now. Pero, you will be hungry later!” 

“Ya, ya, dejame sola. Voy a cocinar,” she says dismissively. 

“No, No, you’re not cooking. Vamos a Olive Garden!”

What to eat is a typical conversation we have. She’s cooked for us for so long, but lately my brother and I are not home for dinner anymore. We are out socializing and fraternizing with our respective friends. Sometimes when I get home, there’s a pot of seco warm on the stove. Out of respect, I’d serve myself a plate and make sure I tell Mama what she cooked was delicious. She blames my eating out for my recent “no-kid dad-bod,” but in truth it’s from all my second dinners! 

Sometimes she’ll join me and I’ll tell her about what my friends are doing. She always asks about my “old crew” but I don’t hang with them anymore. She’ll ask about Julia, but we broke up over a year ago. 

“Buscala en el Facebook.” 

“No Mama. I will not find her on Facebook. Ella esta blocked.” 

So tonight, we feast with endless pasta and breadsticks! I’ll never forget the first time we ate at Olive Garden. In her eyes, it was the classiest of restaurants she has ever dined in. She found a new reason to wear her Sunday best. The waiters looked sharp with their white shirts and black pants; the napkins were not the disposable type; and we weren’t given the dollar store utensils. What impressed her the most was that there was a host to greet us. She was a sucker for a good first impression. This was fine dining and I took her there for her birthday every year since I got a job. Today wasn’t her birthday and maybe that’s why she wasn’t her usual self. 

After walking up the flight of stairs and putting our to-go boxes away, I dared to ask, “Mama, why didn’t you eat?” 

“Porque no tenía hambre.” 

Annoyed, I replied, “That makes no sense. We had desayuno together and I didn’t see you eat another meal after that at all.” 

She grabs her red kettle, fills it up with water to boil, and starts to make herself some tea. 

“Mama, ese no es decaf,” I warned. 

“Yo no quiero decaf,” she said snidely. 

She’s so stubborn. I know she’s sad I’m leaving, but an opportunity has presented itself and I want to take a chance. It’s not that I’m not appreciative of everything she has given me for my whole life. On the contrary, everything I have is because of her. 

After a few moments of silence, my patience ran out and decided it was time to go to sleep. I got up, kissed her goodnight, and as I walked away, she said something that stopped me cold.

“El estaría muy orgulloso.” 

In all my years living under her roof, I might have caught her looking at old pictures, but I have never, not once, ever heard her talk about him - my dad. I felt all signs of life leave with that last breath and I froze. I turned to her with a look of confusion and sadness. Why? Why did you bring him up now? On the last night I spend sleeping on my full size mattress, you flood me with the words “he would be proud.” 

I go to hug her like how I have countless times as a child and tell her “of you. He would be proud of you, Mama.” Our embrace was a little bit longer and I felt teardrops rolling down her cheeks. Another first. 

The next morning everything feels bittersweet. I’m happy to start a new chapter in my life, but I’m sad to be leaving everything I grew up with. If my Mama has taught me anything, it’s that change is good. I grab my phone and mindlessly scroll content until I hear a knock on my door. It’s my Mama, all smiles and she gives me the best goodbye gift - a plate of her lomo saltado. 

And her secret recipe.