Page 3 of Tastes Like Summer

“Michael. My name is Michael. And I’m not some weirdo or some creep. Or a bad parent.” His eyes flash as he holds his daughter close, fingers clutching at her as if someone were five seconds from taking her away from him. “And you are a prejudicial lunatic and the most uptight person I have ever met.”

“A—What?” I sputter.

“You heard me.”

Something inside me snaps, something about his nonchalance triggering bad memories of Rodrigo and his lax and uncaring parenting. “God, Diana. Let the girls have a snack before dinner. It’s not a big deal.” Or “Of course they can watch The Exorcist. I was their age when I first did.” Stupid stuff that would come with even stupider and completely avoidable consequences that I’d have to clean up on my own.

So I open my mouth to let him have it, to let this man know what he really is—a neglectful parent—but then I feel a tug on my skirt. Emiliana. I come back down to reality. “Mami, can we go? Please? I don’t want you to fight.”

And I realize she’s right. They’ve had enough of watching me fight with useless men.

This summer is about them. About doing everything I possibly can to secure their happiness.

“Sí, amor.” I run my fingers through her dark curls, hair a mess after an afternoon of running and playing at the beach.

Before I leave, I turn to glance at Michael just to shoot him a menacing glare, daring him to say another word.

“Let’s go say bye to everyone and then we can go.”

As we make our way back to the main party, I stop to pick up my sandals and wrap, forgotten in the sand, when I hear him whisper an emphatic, “Good riddance.”

“This looks like vomit,” my ever-so-eloquent oldest daughter mutters.

Camila looks down at the plate I set in front of her on the counter as if it had called her a name and kicked her dog while doing it. So dramatic.

I suppress a sigh because I know Emiliana’s diagnosis has been hard on Camila, too. For the most part, she’s been fantastic. But it hasn’t been easy for my oldest to deal with her parents’ divorce while trying not to resent her little sister for taking more attention away from her when she most needs it.

So I reply with, “It’s scrambled eggs, Cami. It’s not like it’s something weird. Plus, you’ve had this before multiple times. And it’s good for you.”

She grimaces, poking at it with her spoon while her little sister slides onto the stool next to her.

“Can’t we do pancakes?” Emiliana whines, brows furrowed. “You used to always make us pancakes on the first day of school. It’s the first day of camp; isn’t that kinda the same? Can’t we just have that?”

This time, I can’t help my deep exhale. I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m sure there’s more than one T1D friendly version of pancakes, but I haven’t had the time to research any options, which is why I went with a recent tried-and-true. Guilt crashes over me like a tsunami because I should definitely be making more of an effort.

“Emi, please.”

Camila scoffs. “Careful, Emi. You shouldn’t bring up pancakes. She might blow up and throw the plates in the backyard.”

“I already apologized for what happened at the wedding and— Also, you are my child. I will react however I feel is appropriate if I think it is in your best interest, if it’s to keep you safe.”

She sighs, exasperated, and rolls her eyes.

“Aren’t you a little young for this type of rebellion? You’re nine. Shouldn’t this type of attitude start when you’re twelve or thirteen?” I shoot her a look, my hand on my hip.

“Whatever, Mom.”

Oh, god. The dreaded “whatever” phase every kid goes through. Though I never did; I never had the luxury. My younger sisters, however… they certainly enjoyed that time in life.

I suppress a wince as I remember the fights between my parents and my sisters, knowing that I should probably nip my daughter’s attitude in the bud before it ever gets to that. Between the divorce, having all of us adjust to a different diet, and seeing me give her little sister extra attention, Camila has had to learn how to adapt in more ways than one. It’s added an extra fun level to an already mounting mass of growing pains.

Patience. The goal is patience and balance. Be understanding, while also setting boundaries.

“Do not ‘whatever’ me, Camila. And if you don’t like your breakfast, you can go ahead and leave it. I’m not making anything special just because you’re still angry at me for the wedding.” Two days later. No one can hold a grudge like she can, apparently. “Please go finish getting ready for camp.”

With a huff, she pushes from the stool and runs out of the kitchen. When the door to the girls’ bedroom—the guest house’s guest bedroom—slams shut, I’m not surprised. I’ve learned to expect it. Could make a soundtrack out of it by now.

I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair, tying it into a loose bun at the top of my head.