DEMETRIA
When we pulled up to Anastasia’s house, an elegant two-story Spanish-style home in Culver City, Anastasia was already at the door.
The moment she saw Papá, she rushed forward warmly. “Señor Hernández, bienvenido.”
(Mr. Hernández, welcome )
Papá smiled, hugging her briefly. “Gracias, mi niña.”
(Thank you, my girl.)
Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza, greeted him like he was extended family. We all gathered around the dining room table, which was covered in homemade mole, arroz rojo, tortillas, carnitas, and agua fresca in glass pitchers. It smelled like every Sunday of my childhood.
“I know your mom cooked all this,” I whispered, teasing Anastasia as we set plates.
“Of course she did. I just said yes to everything.”
I guffawed. “Girl, get close to the stove. It’s never too
