Chapter 10 - HOME IS WHERE YOU BELONG
December 24, 2026 – Christmas Eve
The kitchen in Gabriel’s King William home was filled with the intoxicating aromas of roasted pork, cinnamon, steamed banana leaves, and fresh tamales.
Christmas music played softly from the radio—not polished jazz from hidden ceiling speakers, but warm, nostalgic holiday songs that reminded me of my childhood.
I stood by the large wooden island in the center of the kitchen, spreading masa onto corn husks. Beside me stood Elena—a kind, warm-hearted pediatrician Gabriel had met through a charity board three months ago. Elena’s laughter was bright and effortless, and her hands were covered in masa as she tried her best to fold the tamales under my instruction.
"Like this, Lourdes?" Elena asked, holding up a neatly folded tamale with a triumphant smile.
"Perfect, Elena," I smiled, patting her hand. "You're a natural."
Gabriel walked into the kitchen, wearing a comfortable wool sweater, holding two mugs of hot chocolate. He stopped in the doorway, watching Elena and me laugh together. The look of peace in his eyes was something I hadn't seen in over a decade.
"Everything ready for dinner?" Gabriel asked, stepping over to kiss my cheek before handing a mug to Elena.
"Almost, mijo," I said. "Go set the dining room table."
"On it," Gabriel smiled.
A few minutes later, I walked into the dining room carrying a large platter of fresh food.
The long oak table was set for twelve. There were no gold place cards chosen by color schemes. There were no sterile glass ornaments.
Instead, in the center of the table rested twelve simple, beautifully embroidered linen napkins—each one stitched with delicate bluebonnets, their bright blue threads glowing beneath the warm light of the chandelier.
Gabriel stepped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders as we looked at the table together.
"They look beautiful, Mom," Gabriel whispered into my hair.
"They belong here," I said softly.
On the back of the grand armchair at the head of the table hung the compass quilt—its navy, cream, and rust-colored squares radiating warmth, love, and resilience. Emblazoned across the back, the stitched letters were clear for everyone to see:
Home is where no one has to become smaller.
May you like
As the doorbell rang and the sound of laughing family members filled the foyer, Gabriel opened the front door to welcome our guests into the light.
I took my seat at the table, surrounded by the people who loved me, knowing that the long night was finally over—and that we were, at last, truly home.
