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When I arrive at my parents’ house in Newton Corner, I sit in their driveway for a few minutes to gain my composure. I don’t want them to know I was crying on my way here. They always have a slew of questions. I don’t need to give them any more ammunition.
My parents moved to Newton in the early 1970s after moving to Boston from Puerto Rico. They had wanted to move to a neighborhood with good schools where they could raise their kids. Until he retired a few years ago, my father worked in a weapons manufacturing plant in the next town. My mother was a housekeeper for several families in Newton and neighboring towns.
I’m the youngest of six, and there are two or three years’ age difference from one to the next. Newton Corner, my father told me, was the only part of Newton they could afford to buy a house since Newton was considered a more affluent city. But this part of the city was working class, yet would permit us to attend public schools here, which were amongst the best in the nation. Our Latino family was only one of a handful of Latino families in the city, which was predominantly Jewish and Italian when I was growing up.
I still remember starting pre-K, and on the first day of school, I didn’t speak English. When my mother picked me up that day, the teacher told her, “Mrs. Lopez, you must speak English to your daughter because she doesn’t understand anything we’re doing. She speaks no English.” My parents ignored the teacher’s instruction and insisted that we only speak Spanish at home. Despite that, I learned English within a few weeks.
But growing up Latina in Newton wasn’t always easy. With olive skin and a name like mine, I was often asked by kids and adults alike, “What are you?” or “Where are you from?” It made me self-conscious. I always looked different than most of the girls I went to school with because of my height and big, frizzy hair. When I hit my growth spurt in junior high school, though, I really stuck out. I was taller than all the girls and boys, had curvy hips, thighs, a big, round ass, bouncy curls, and full lips. I hated being a teenager because I always felt so different and didn’t know how to love myself.
The ascent up the backstairs leaves me in the kitchen where my parents are making dinner—the aromas reminiscent of my childhood. It smells delicious, and the scent of Adobo seasoning fills the air. My father is standing over the stove, flipping something in the frying pan, and I kiss him.
“Hi,Papi.Huele rico, what are you making?” I ask.
My father is seventy, yet carries his age well. He’s taller than me at six-foot-one, has thick curly hair, the gray hair evenly mixed with the black, and the wrinkles creasing his eyes show years of experience.
“Hola, Nena. Right now,chicharrones,” he says. “I know you love them. The rest of the food is almost ready. We were waiting for you.”
“Mmm, pork rinds. Thanks,Papi,” I say, before turning to where my mom is standing at the counter. “Hola, Mami.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. My mother, also seventy, is petite with dark blonde hair and striking green eyes.
“Hola, Nena,” she says. She’s washing lettuce and spinach, probably to make a salad.
“Can I help?”
“Si,”Mamisays. “Cut some bread. It’s on the dining room table.” She gestures to her left.
I pick up the bread from the table and see a picture of Massimo and me that my mom has in a metal frame on the china cabinet. I wonder why she kept this photo up. We’re all dressed up, him in a black suit and me in a purple dress. We had been dating for about one year, and I asked him to be my plus one at my friend Gina’s wedding, a couple of hours away from the city. We rented a hotel room for the night since we would be drinking at the wedding.
Eleven Years Ago
“Will you zip the back of my dress for me?” I ask.
Massimo sidles up to me—his front to my back—and nuzzles his nose below my ear.
“I’d rather take this dress off of you right now,” he says, placing kisses along my neck between each word.
“You know I would love that too, but we’re gonna be late. You’ll have to save it for later.”
Massimo’s hands separate from me and he pulls the zipper up. “I’m gonna have a fucking hard-on all night watching you in that dress.” His voice is deep and husky.
After he zips me up, I turn and see his shirt buttoned except for the top one, his purple tie loosely hanging around his neck. He’s so handsome—lean and statuesque at six-foot-three with a chiseled jawline and a Greek nose. I could stare at him for hours on end.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask.
“Just need to fix my tie.”
I watch him close the top button and adjust the tie, his left hand holding it while his right hand tightens the knot. His hands are large and olive-colored, with veins prominent along the top. How I love feeling them on my skin. They’re masculine, yet he’s so delicate when he explores my body with them, when he holds my hands in his while walking.
Later at the church, we watch the wedding party enter. I’m sitting closest to the aisle, and Massimo is to my right. We rise to our feet to watch my friend enter on her father’s arm, her wedding dress straight cut and simple with a long train. Massimo leans into me, whispering, “You’re gonna look beautiful when I marry you.” He softly kisses me on the cheek.
I blush at his statement, questions swirling in my head. Instead, I smile at him and continue watching Gina march toward her groom.
“Nena, where’s the bread?” My mother’s words bring me back to the here and now.
I love the memory this picture evoked. If Massimo had known then that I would crush his soul, he never would’ve asked me to marry him.
“Coming,” I respond. I grab the bread off the table and return to the kitchen.
We enjoy dinner at the large round kitchen table, the same as we always did when I was growing up. We would all gather around the table, the space tight with the six of us kids squeezing in with my parents. They cooked together on most nights because they both worked all day, so it was their time to catch up with each other. They would steal kisses when they thought we weren’t looking. Back then, it would gross me out to see my parents kissing or being affectionate with each other. Looking back on it, they set a great example of what love is.
