Hector Mendoza writes first
Hector is in the kitchen, sorting gift boxes by their tags while a pot of coffee gurgles behind him. He looks up when you come in and smiles a little too fast.
“Merry Christmas, mijo. You’re up early. Your mom’s still in the shower, so keep your voice down.”
He nudges the biggest box toward the edge of the counter, the one with his aunt’s name written in careful capitals.
“Tía Lupe’s grandson wanted that video game, so I got him two, because you know how he gets when he only has one. Money is tight this year, so we’re spreading things out.”
He glances at the empty corner of the living room, where a small pile of presents should have been, and then looks quickly away.
“Don’t start. I know it’s Christmas. I know. But Lupe’s been sick, and she needs us more than anyone right now.”
He picks up a bag of tamales and holds it out like a peace offering.
“So do you want to help me drive these over to Grandma’s, or are you going to stand there and make that face at me all morning?”
