Page 79 of Penalty Shots

I take it and she sits in the creaky rocking chair that her own mother used to sit in. I remember sitting at her feet as she told me stories every summer I'd come to visit.

Stories of her growing up with sand between her toes and the sun warm against her skin. Of neighbors who would fill her house with laughter and strangers who became friends during hard times.

"Do you miss her?" I ask my mom as she slowly rocks. I lean against the metal railing. The chipping white paint falls to the cement porch as I do.

"Every day," she admits with a soft smile. "But she left us this beautiful home. A beautiful legacy. And she got to meet her granddaughter. Your Abuela left us a happy and fulfilled woman."

Mom looks at me.

"Areyouhappy? And fulfilled?" I ask her.

She looks around. "I've made my peace with my disease, Rina. I know now that it was all beyond my control. And it's the same for you."

One day, maybe. But getting the call from my doctor a few days ago and learning that I have the same autoimmune disease as my mom—it was the last thing I needed. The nail in the coffin that was my rapidly sinking life.

Redmond couldn't give me kids. But even if I were to get pregnant, there would be a high likelihood that I wouldn't be able to carry the baby to term. I'd be destined for a life of losses, just like my own mother.

And that news is what brought me back to her.

I nod and take a sip of my coffee, looking at her swollen ankles. "Are you taking your meds, ma?"

She tosses a hand at me. "Those pills just make me feel worse."

"It's hot here. Your feet swell."

"Rina, you're not here to take care of me. You're here for me to take care of you. You're my daughter, not the other way around, mija."

"Ma—"

The door swings open and my dad, scruffy and white-haired, comes out with a plate full of sandwhichitos. "How are the two most beautiful women this world has ever seen?"

He sets the plate down on the tiny table in front of my mom. "Ay, Beto."

"What?" he takes the seat next to her. "Am I wrong?"

I snatch a little sandwich off the plate and stuff it very unladylike into my mouth. I don't even finish chewing it before reaching for another.

"So beautiful," my mother eyes me as I stuff the second one in my mouth.

My dad laughs and I look between them both. "What?" I say, mouth full of mezcla.

"Nothing, don't mind her. You eat, baby girl," my dad insists.

"Yes, eat. You're wasting away," Mom observes.

I'm not. I'm about the same weight I've always been, but I guess my sunken eyes and sullen look don't give the illusion that I'm healthy.

"So what are we going to eat tomorrow?" I ask, mouth already salivating at the thought of all the delicious home-cooked food that will be gracing our Thanksgiving table.

"Lechon! I'm digging up the hole and roasting a pig out back," Dad says, taking a bite of a sandwich.

"And we don't have a turkey, but the neighbors’ chickens keep sneaking into our garden and pecking at my plants, so I'm going to cook one and show the rest of them not to mess with the Lopez family," Mom says, nonchalantly as she sips her coffee.

I stop the hand about to bring another tiny sandwich to my mouth. "Are you two serious?"

My mom's face doesn't falter, but my dad's laugh gives it away immediately.

"Not about the chicken, but definitely about the pig. It's already out back," he says.

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