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I race upstairs to my room, throw on something vaguely presentable for the middle of the afternoon, and call out to my son that I’ll be right back.
He knows the routine by now, but I never feel right just leaving him to an empty house without first giving fair warning.
When I pull up to the school, my girls are just reaching the end of the parking lot. I’m right on time.
“Hey, how was your day?” I ask them as per usual.
With a lax tone, they say in unison, “Fine.”
“Anything fun and exciting happen today?”
“No,” my youngest says.
“No,” her sister repeats.
“Nothing? Did you go outside for recess or anything? What did you have for lunch?”
If possible, their answers are even more lifeless than their first. “Well, my day was pretty good,” I say as I navigate the side streets back home. “I got a lot of writing done today.” It’s my main source of income, which is terrifying now that I am truly on my own. I honestly don’t know how I’ve managed not to dip into the savings these last few months. Looking down the road, though, is what really shakes me. But I’m choosing to focus on today. Everything will work out, one way or another.
The girls think me being a writer is cool. They tell their friends and teachers all about it, even though they know very little. The content isn’t exactly kid-friendly, but I love that they’re as proud of me as I am of them. Still, they have a distinct lack of enthusiasm as I talk about it.
Must be one of those days.
Giving up on general conversation, I say, “Well, I lost track of time today, so what do you say we go out to eat tonight?” I shouldn’t be spending the money, especially when I worry so much about where the next dollar will come from, but we’re not in dire straits—yet—and sometimes we all need a break from the monotony. Sometimes, we have to have a treat just to feel normal, even if only for an hour.
“Yeah!” my youngest practically yells.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. What do you guys feel like eating?”
Of course, they throw out all the usual fast food joints, but I suggest something more family oriented. They balk, wanting to eat at home rather than going through the trials and tribulations of eating in an actual restaurant, but I eventually get them to agree to my way of thinking.
I want family time. An hour to just sit and talk and not be distracted by cell phones and television. I want to talk to them, hear about their lives, interact. Lord knows we don’t do it nearly enough.
Since they love tacos, we find a Mexican restaurant nearby that we’ve never been to. It’s an adventure for all of us. For me because I’ve always had a fear of doing new things. That feeling of being out of my element, not knowing where to go, what to say, how things work, make me feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. For them, it’s just a fear of trying new food. If only life were that simple again for me. To be a child again…
They don’t know how good they have it.
Holding my head up high, I carry myself as if I’ve been coming here all my life, telling myself that I’m not on display, people are not staring, and I’m not the first to be the last to discover what has probably been in operation for the better part of a decade.
The inside of the restaurant is just what I would expect: hand-painted murals on every wall, colorful everything from the tables to the counters to the tiled floors. Salsa music plays in the background, and it’s everything warm and homey and inviting. I notice the staff all appear to be Mexican and the hostess herself—a beautiful young woman around the age of twenty with long, silky black hair and an amazing accent—greets us right away. We’re guided to a table that overlooks a bank of windows with a view of the harbor, completing the experience.
We spend our time joking around and talking about nonsense while we eat authentic cuisine that’s out-of-this-world amazing, then we dive into plates of sopapillas which they’ve made out of fried tortillas and drizzled with honey and dusted with cinnamon.
We leave stuffed to the gills and lighter in spirit than we’ve been in months.
“Thank you, guys, for getting along so well tonight. I’m glad I didn’t have to beat any of you,” I tease as I open the back door and step aside to allow the kids to file past into the house.
I’m pretty sure I hear their eyes roll in their sockets. The kids are so well-behaved now that Mark is gone, as if they’ve all just pulled together to form a united front with me. It’s a welcome change from the daily fights and endless bickering of the past.
“I wish I still had some of those sopa…sopa…”
“Sopapillas,” I supply for my little one.
“Yeah, those. They were sooooo good,” she says dramatically, her knees buckling and her body slouching until she looks like a wax figure that’s been left out in the sun too long.
“Well, maybe we can go back sometime and have some more.”
