Thailandia Alaffita

Quiet Apologies

It’s a cold winter afternoon. The days are shorter and the nights are longer. I constantly feel like I’m running out of time. I am dreading an afternoon of cooking dinner, washing dishes, doing homework with my daughter, play time, bathtime, story time, bedtime, and probably a tantrum or two. All of this on my own. I stand over the stove cooking my daughter’s favorite rice - mexican rice. The little girl has already eaten a bag of chips, a handful of chocolate chips, and a raspberry popsicle. I should offer something more substantial, I think. I should be a better mom, I think. 

The doorbell rings unexpectedly. It’s my mother. I’m surprised she’s here after that exhausting confrontation we had days before. She has a large tupperware filled to the brim with food in her hands. “Te traje albóndigas. Es una receta nueva,” she tells me as she lets herself in. She makes a beeline for the kitchen and begins heating up the meatball soup in the microwave. Good thing I’m making rice she tells me because she didn’t bring any. She waits for the rice to fully cook and then scoops up some to put in a bowl. She ladles out some soup and adds it to the rice submerging it in the thick, red, steaming liquid. She heats up five tortillas straight on the burner. She swears they taste better this way. She cuts up a lime. I’ve never been able to eat any soup without lime. She knows this. She raised me. She puts a spoon in the bowl. She places it on the table. “Eat,” she says and watches me like a hawk. 

That first spoonful I take to my mouth is scalding hot, it burns my tongue, but it reminds me of sitting at the dining room table of my childhood home waiting for dinner. It stings a bit. The memory. 

I can tell the recipe is new. It doesn’t taste like the albondigas she used to make when I was young. The ones I loved so much. But these are still good. They taste of chipotle, and cumin, and onions. I devour them in an instant. I’m famished. She doesn’t eat. I’m starving. She serves my daughter some rice. I’m ravenous. We don’t talk about what happened the last time she was here. I want more. But I leave the rest for my husband. He will be hungry when he gets home from work, and I’ve made nothing but rice today. I should learn to cook, I think. I should be a better wife, I think. 

The doorbell rings unexpectedly again. It’s my dad. I tell her. She makes a disgusted face. But doesn’t leave. She doesn’t leave. My parents were married for 30 years. The day my sister and I left home for good, my mom followed right behind. She didn’t miss a beat. She had been waiting for this moment. Enduring decades of pain to secure her daughters’ lives. I was so proud of her. I took her to the courthouse. I was there when she signed the divorce decree. I was there when she changed her name back to her maiden name. I ask myself now, what happened to all that bravery? 

My dad comes in. They exchange courteous hellos. I ask my dad if he wants to eat. My mom makes it clear that the leftover meatball soup she brought is for my husband. My dad and I exchange looks but neither of us say anything. He accepts some of my rice. Rice is a difficult thing to make. If not the most. I’ve almost perfected it. My daughter likes it enough. But it is not perfect. I couldn’t find the right seasoning. She didn’t notice. My dad raves about my rice the entire time he’s eating it. My dad is not one to compliment. I once cooked an alfredo pasta for my family that he refused to even try because it “looked” weird. He once told me, standing in the hallway of our tiny apartment, that I would never hear the words “I’m proud of you” from him because he wasn’t. 

Now, he sits across from me at my dining room table, in my spacious house, eating my rice and claims to be tasting heaven. I don’t believe him. But I devour every validation, no matter how small and insignificant. We don’t talk about what happened the last time he was here. 

My parents hold a respectful conversation long enough. I feel the tension in the room, however. I know how difficult it is for both of them. I try to fill the silent spaces with anecdotes of their five-year old granddaughter. We make it through this impromptu dinner without talking about how awkward it is for both of them to be in my house, at the same time, sitting at the same table, that belongs to their broken daughter. I think they both wonder what happened to dim the light from my eyes, but they don’t ask. I wonder if they realize it has been dimming for a long time now. 

When he is done and his plate is clean, I watch my dad, for the first time in his life, take his dish to the sink and rinse it. My mom and I exchange looks, but neither of us say anything. My daughter wants to play, so we move to the living room. I try to remember any time my parents agreed to play with me, and I can’t. I wonder if my daughter will remember that we played with her every single day. That we read her bedtime stories. That we hugged her and kissed her every chance we got. Her eyes flicker bright as she tells us a story. My parents sit next to each other, but leave a space between them so as not to accidentally touch. Five-year old me would fit perfectly in that space, I think. Thirty-five year old me could too.