“Hijo, ya está la comida!”
My mom shouted from the kitchen of our family home in Oak Cliff that my huevo con chorizo tacos were ready.
It was New Year’s Eve 2020, and I’d been staying at my parents’ house for almost a week so my mom didn’t ring in the new year alone. She’d spent most of the past month and a half by herself. Since November 19, my father had been at Dallas’ Parkland Hospital trying his best to fight the damage COVID-19 had done to his lungs. For the entirety of December, a machine had been breathing for him while tubes lodged down his throat helped feed him and suck bile from his lungs.
In the kitchen, my mom stood over the hot stove and flipped a corn tortilla
