Over eight years, Dad and I have accumulated a life here out of practically nothing. We knew no one. We had very little. But here we are now.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“I know that look.” Dad smiles at me, and the corners of his brown eyes crinkle. “You’re thinking of something.”

“Perhaps it’s possible my life hasn’t been that tragically boring and uneventful,” I reply.

“Well, thank God for that.” He stands up and wipes his calloused hands on his flannel shirt. “I’m hungry. Let’s get dinner ready.”

We walk into the kitchen, which overlooks the living room. Dad starts handing me items from the shopping bag to prepare. He takes out a frying pan and turns on the gas stove, while I put my collarbone-length wavy brown hair up in a ponytail. One time, and I mean one time, there was a piece of my hair in our food and he’s never let me forget it.

“Smart move”—he gestures at my hair—“I wasn’t in the mood for a side of hairball with our tacos. Now, cue up some music, please. And I must specify, proper music.”

“You mean old people’s music,” I fire back as I turn on his favorite classic rock station.

As Dad starts browning the ground turkey, I prepare all the fixings for Taco Tuesday. “Wait a second, I thought we didn’t count iceberg as a green?” I start cutting up the lettuce. Dad and I have an agreement that we have to have a fruit or vegetable with every meal, and one green thing with dinner. You know, healthy living and all that.

“Listen, we’ve got onions and salsa—which is made up of tomatoes and other vegetables. We’re more than doing our due diligence.”

“We’re the epitome of good health.”

“We should write a cookbook or go on one of those cooking competition shows. We’d dominate, as long as the challenge involves making tacos or heating up a pizza. Oh, don’t forget all the calcium we’ll be consuming.” He hands me a bag of shredded cheddar cheese.

“Yes, I’m a growing girl.” I get a bowl out for the cheese but can’t help but put a few pieces in my mouth. Maybe more than a few. “I can verify that the cheese is at its top cheesiest.”

“I should probably also check, to be safe. I need to be a good parent.” He opens his mouth, and I put a few shreds in. “Oh, you’re right.”

“I’m sorry, can you say that again? I need to get this on video.” Then I pull out my own outdated phone. While mine is not of the flip variety, it’s not a smartphone. It’s actually pretty dumb, but it texts, so that’s all I need.