It’s not just my dad, but our dad, which always trips me up. Most of the time, I don’t have to share him, except for a couple of times a year—summer vacations and the holidays.

“You two should stop yapping and come set the table,” Abuelo calls, already in the dining room. “I didn’t come all the way to California just to miss Thanksgiving with my grandchildren.”

“Don’t forget my show, Abuelo,” I say, pressing a kiss to his cheek as I set out plates. “Even if you miss everything else and the Golden Gate Bridge, you have to stay to see the show. It’ll be worth it.”

“I love how modest you are,” Tía Camila says, sliding into her own seat. “It’s your best feature.”

“Don’t be jeaaaaalouuuuus.”

Dave glances around aimlessly. It takes me a second to remember that he doesn’t know where anything is. I leave the plates on the table, gesturing at him to stay put. I’ll grab the utensils so he doesn’t get lost.

In the kitchen, Abuela speaks rapid-fire Spanish to Dad while jabbing a finger at her tamales. Pops settles everything else on the counters: turkey, sweet potatoes, chorizo stuffing, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, rice and beans. Pecan and apple pies rest on cooling racks. I watch as Pops kicks open the fridge and pulls out an aluminum foil–covered container. Flan’s my favorite, but Dad only makes it on special occasions. My mouth waters.

“I bet your Papi’s flan isn’t as good as mine, eh, mi amor?” Abuela pulls me into her chest. I lean into the warmth, feeling five years old again. “But we love him for trying, don’t we?”

“Thanks a lot,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “I appreciate the encouragement.”

“We’ll be out soon,” Pops says, tossing off his oven mitts. “Just give us a minute.”

Translation: Please leave. Abuela seems to get the message, pulling me toward the dining room with her.

“Did you get the forks and knives?” Dave asks, hovering near a chair. He’s the only one standing.

I glance down at my empty hands, give a sheepish shrug, and turn back toward the kitchen. As I pad down the hall, I can hear loud voices. My steps start to slow. Of course, my parents argue like normal people, but they’re always quiet when they do it. Today is the exception. They’re fighting and they’re loud and they’re not even joking with each other. What’s up?

“This isn’t exactly new,” Pops says. There’s the sound of clanking. “You knew they weren’t going to be supportive when you married me, Javier. Things aren’t going to change just because our daughter is getting older.”