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I nod.

“Good boy.” She smiles. “I always told him that when it was time to introduce someone to the family, first, they needed to be introduced to our food.”

We’ve been working on filling the corn husks lined with masa with the pork filling to make tamales, and the rhythmic work allows us to fall into a comfortable silence before she speaks again.

“Food is the language of families. It’s how traditions are passed down and how legacies are built.” She says finally. “That’s how I met Marshall’s papa. I was here for school, cooking in our dorms much like this, and this tall white boy wandered into the communal kitchen looking for whatever was making the hall smell so good.”

“You won him over with his stomach?” I chuckle.

“Maybe. I like to think that community is built around the kitchen table. Cooking gave Paul and I a way to talk, a common language.” She looks up at me with stars in her eyes. “He proposed to me by making every dish I ever taught him, you know.”

“He did?” I smile, thinking of how precious that moment must have been. “That’s so sweet.”

“I would have said yes either way, but the fact that he took the time to show me he saw me as I am? It meant the world.” She says with a fond smile.

“Is he here today?” I ask. “I haven’t met him yet.”

Her expression grows dark and haunted. “Paul died when Marshall was eight.” She says somberly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” I say regretfully.

“That man was Marshall’s whole world,” Mamá says with a small smile. “He’s the baby of the six children and the only boy. I think it affected him the most out of all of them.”

We work in silence for a while before she speaks again.

“I think this is what I was hoping for with Marshall. I never knew who he would end up with. But I always told him that they were all welcome at our table no matter who he brought home.”

“You know about Marshall being pansexual?” I ask, a little surprised.

“Of course.” She chuckles. “Marshall is always interested in people, not their labels. But I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad you’re the one he’s brought home.”

“Am I the first?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“And the last.” She says with a finality that sends goosebumps down my skin. “You’re good together. I can tell.”

“Thank you,” I say, wiping my masa covered hands on my apron. “I’m glad he has such a supportive family.”

“You, mija.” She interrupts. “You have us too now.”

Tears well in my eyes at the proclamation, damn pregnancy hormones.

“Oh, mija. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Mamá says, rushing over to me and taking me by the hands. “I just want you to know you’re always welcome here.”

I chuckle with water in my eyes. “Sorry. Just my hormones acting up.”

“I think it’s time for you to rest. I’ll take you to Marshall’s room and tell him where you are.” She says all business as she cleans herself up.

As we pass through the hallways of the home, the family stops us at every turn to say hello or wish Marshall and me well, and the overwhelming feeling of acceptance is almost too much to handle without tears.

By the time we reach the side of the H-shaped house with the bedrooms, I’m exhausted physically and emotionally.

“Here you go,” Mamá says, opening the door to one of the bedrooms at the front of the house. “I’ll send Marshall to check on you in a few minutes. Just make yourself comfortable. Extra blankets are in the closet.”

She closes the door behind her when she leaves, and I take a good look around the room.

Marshall’s childhood bedroom is a shrine to his accomplishments. Every wall is covered with trophies and ribbons for various sports and academic achievements. What I wasn’t expecting was all the art on the walls, among posters of sports icons and favorite bands.

A knock on the door draws me out of my observations.

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