“Do you really need that right now?” she hissed.
After the words left her mouth, it felt like time stood still, as everyone looked at me waiting for my reply. I felt naked, the invisible line had been crossed. As the five of us stood on the corner of Waverly and Broadway, with the rain splashing on us, I felt like I only had three options: (1) continue and pretend like nothing happened, (2) go to the shop and get the forbidden drink, or (3) go home. I chose three. As I said my goodbyes, and turned towards the train station, my heart raced, hoping that someone would come after me, that no one would let me leave alone. Of course, no one did. So, I left, waiting for the local N, cold, wet, and alone…
Thanksgiving was nothing special for me. As a kid, I was dragged from family to family to spend the holiday evenly with each parent. On my mom’s side, it was a day like all the rest. But on my dad’s side, my grandma Luchy made sure we all knew to give thanks to God.
For her, it was the one time of year when family and friends would come to her house, enjoy her food, and follow her beliefs. Each year, she would put her famous meatloaf recipe aside and make a turkey that’d been dripping in marinate for days. She would mash potatoes with extra milk and butter, and she would serve some salad on the side. She would spend all day preparing the meal, and guests would trickle in, of course, never on time — the Colombian way…