“Mmmm,” she says. “Were there a lot of parties at Weller Community?”

“You know, there weren’t before my time, but I brought the party. Really put the community in community college.”

Mrs. Rodriguez side-eyes him. “Do you mean the trivia nights you used to have?” She turns to us. “He was a total nerd,” she whispers, not very quietly.

“Hey Robbie, are you staying for dinner?” He expertly changes the subject.

I try not to laugh.

“Yes! Stay!” Mateo says.

“No, thank you,” I say. “I would be happy to, but I should be getting home to eat with my dad.” I click my phone to check the time—6:53 p.m. Shit.

“I’m actually already late.” I start to pack my things.

Mateo nods knowingly. If there’s anything a little kid gets, it’s not to piss off your parents when it comes to being on time for dinner.

“Hola,” I say as I push open the door. Dad is sitting at the table, which is already set. It smells great, even though the food has probably been sitting for fifteen minutes. “I am so sorry.” I set down my bag and begin to explain.

“It’s okay.”

I freeze. “What’s wrong?” I ask. Nothing says something’s off more than when your parents aren’t mad at you when they usually would be.

“Let’s talk about it with your mother,” he says. Always insisting on coparenting, even across the miles.

We fill plates with tortillas and beans and chicken, cooked slowly in the recipe of spices my maternal grandmother left us. He makes it pretty much perfectly now, and I barely remember how it tasted during the first few months after Mom was gone, when my father struggled to re-create the meals he’d eaten for years without ever considering how they were made.

My father grabs a real sugar Coke for me and beer for him from the fridge while I call my mother, propping the phone against the kitchen wall.

“¡Mi amor!” she says as soon as her face appears on the screen. She waves at me, the motion pixilated because the connection is poor.

My father hands me my soda and takes a seat at the table. We fold our hands and bow our heads and my mother says grace, her words traveling up to a satellite floating above Earth and then back down to us in our cramped Oakland kitchen.

“Amén,” we say in unison, and I reach for my food. Like Pavlov’s dog, nothing makes me hungrier than this signal that it is all right for me to eat.

The food has the same effect as hugging my dad, or hearing my mom’s favorite song. Home.

After a few bites, I summon the courage to ask. “So what is this thing you wanted to tell me?”

“Well.” My dad exhales. “I don’t think we will be able to go to Mexico this Christmas.”