The clink of a spoon against ceramic was oddly calming.
"Eat your broccoli, Sam," I said softly, scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate in the shape of a smiley face.
"But I don't like the trees," he pouted, nose wrinkled.
"They make you strong like Spider-Man," I teased.
He considered that for a second. Then, with slow, dramatic effort, he chewed one and flexed his tiny arms. "I'm strong now!"
I laughed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He smelled like vanilla lotion and dried sweat from his afternoon nap.
This—this quiet dinner with my three-year-old son—should've been a soft, warm chapter in my life. But peace, in this house, was fleeting.
The sharp sound of heels on tiles echoed from the kitchen. Then came the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice—sharp, precise, and laced with judgment.
"Dios mío," she sighed. "No puede ser que sigas así, Jaimie."
Here we go again.
My grandmother, who had been silently watching from the wooden rocking chair near the window, finally spoke. "Es una vergüenza. Una mujer educada, con honores, y ahora con un niño sin apellido."
I kept my eyes on Sam, who was humming while stabbing his mashed potato with a fork. He didn't understand the words, but I could feel the tension beginning to color the air.
"Jaimie," my mom continued, switching to a curt mix of English and Spanish—her way of making sure her disappointment stung harder. "How can you sit there like it's normal? You have a child. A child! And you still refuse to tell us who the father is."
"I've told you already," I said quietly, wiping Sam's mouth. "It's not important."
"¡No me digas eso!" she snapped, slamming her palm against the table. "Él tiene derecho. Tú tienes la responsabilidad. What kind of mother doesn't hold the father accountable?"
"The kind who's already doing her best," I replied, more sharply than I intended.
Abuela muttered a prayer under her breath. "Ay, Señor. Qué hicimos mal con esta niña."
I stood up, picked up Sam from his high chair, and held him close. He looked up at me, confused by the rising volume, the clipped words, the way my shoulders stiffened.
"I don't need help from someone who left," I said, my voice quieter now. "And I don't need him in Sam's life just because you're ashamed of how it looks from the outside."
My mother folded her arms. "You don't get to rewrite your mistakes just because you're a mother now."
"No, but I get to protect my son," I said firmly. "And I won't drag a man into his life just to make our family image look neat on paper."
There was a long pause.
The house felt still, like the walls were waiting for someone to scream or cry.
But instead, Sam broke the silence with a bright, "Mama, may I have more 'tato, please?"
I smiled through the knot in my throat. "Of course, baby."
As I returned to the table, spooning more mashed potatoes onto his plate, I realized this dinner—this moment—wasn't just about food or family pressure. It was about choices. About how much I had changed since that girl who once lived for validation from grades, from gold medals, from boys who kissed and left.
I didn't need medals anymore. I didn't need permission.
I had Sam.
And that meant I finally had something worth choosing myself for.
12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEEj9Hj21rA
