I laugh so hard, I nearly choke on my food. It’s the only response I didn’t expect, but the perfect way to bring some levity to the conversation. Julia starts laughing, too, and before we know it, we’re all cracking up together. And we can’t stop. I don’t remember the last time we laughed like this. I don’t know if we’ve ever laughed like this. For a brief moment, it doesn’t matter that we probably won’t be able to pay our rent again this month, or that poor people are dying in this pandemic disproportionally. What matters is that, despite those facts, we are a family that is still capable of making one another laugh. Julia is the first to compose herself. She lets out another sigh, turns to me, and grabs my hand.

“Thank you for telling us all this. For what it’s worth, I really like Wes. The boy makes a mean Yule-log cake. I think you guys are lucky to have each other—pandemic or no pandemic.”

“His grandmother made the cake,” I reply pointedly.

I know she’s not trying to compliment his baking skills. She’s trying to remind me that he went out of his way to make me happy. He took the time to bring me a cake because that’s how much I mean to him.

“But you’re right. He’s thoughtful like that.” I smile.

Elena excuses herself from the table, then returns a couple of minutes later, holding a tattered cardboard box in her hands. She places it right in front of me. Julia seems surprised by the gesture but also uncertain.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks Elena.

“Nope.”

I open the box and find it filled to the brim with printed photographs. Memories frozen in time that string together a family history I’ve never been included in. I know it sounds insane, but until sifting through these pictures, aside from the quick glimpse I got of them outside their house, I didn’t really know what my grandparents looked like. Technically, I still don’t. These are images of them taken over twenty years ago. The people I’m looking at are the same age my parents are now.

I try not to get too overwhelmed as Julia and Elena point out my aunts and uncles and share stories about where they were and what they were doing in each photo. That family vacation, that Christmas, that birthday party. I stare at a picture of my Abuela Reina, hair blowing in the wind, smiling wide in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. We look so much alike. The same freckles, the same long, wavy hair, the same button nose.