#abuelas

He sat at the small kitchen table, knee stretched out awkwardly beneath it, the familiar brace hidden under loose sweatpants. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, painting the room in warm gold while the smell of simmering beans and cilantro filled the air.

Abuela bustled around the kitchen like a storm in an apron.

“Eat,” she ordered, dropping another tortilla onto his plate.

“Abuela, I already ate—”

“You ate *nothing.* Soldiers always think coffee counts as food.” She waved a wooden spoon at him like a weapon. “You are too thin.”

Rudy sighed but obeyed. One thing about Abuela: resistance was pointless.

For a while, she hovered, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting. Straightening the salt shaker. Moving the napkins. Watching him in that sharp, knowing way she had. Rudy felt it coming.

“Rodolfo.”

“…Yes, Abuela?”

“You are over thirty.” He froze mid-bite. Like a hare suddenly meeting a snake.

“Many men your age already have families.” She crossed her arms, eyeing him carefully. “Children. Little ones running around.”

Rudy stared at his plate. “Abuela—”

“You would make a good father,” she continued firmly, as if presenting evidence in court. “You are patient. Kind. Responsible. You cook. You feed animals. You scold people gently.” She sniffed. “Perfect.”

Rudy felt his ears heating. “I’m busy,” he tried weakly.

“Busy?” Abuela scoffed. “So is everyone. That has never stopped people from making babies.”

“Abuela—”

“And that Alejandro boy,” she added suddenly. Rudy choked on his tortilla.

Abuela narrowed her eyes.

“He visits. He brings groceries when he thinks I do not notice.” She sniffed again, but there was affection in it. “Good manners.”

Rudy stood abruptly, grabbing his mug like it was a life raft. “I—uh—I should check on the dog outside.”

“There is no dog outside,” Abuela replied calmly. Rudy was already halfway to the door. “I’ll… check anyway!”

The screen door slapped shut behind him as he escaped into the yard, face burning. Inside, Abuela shook her head slowly, stirring the pot on the stove.

Young men. Always so dramatic.

She muttered to herself in Spanish under her breath:“Those two act like the whole town doesn’t see it.” She tasted the soup, nodded approvingly.

“Fine,” she continued, stirring again. “If they don’t want to make babies, they can adopt. Plenty of children need good homes.”

Another thoughtful pause.

“And that Alejandro cooks terribly,” she added with certainty. “Rodolfo will have to handle the kitchen.”

Outside, Rudy leaned against the fence, trying to cool his face in the breeze.

From inside the house, he heard Abuela call out:

“Rodolfo! If you are going to stand out there thinking about life, at least bring me more cilantro!”

Rudy groaned softly. Some missions were harder than others.