No Desayunastes, Así Que preparé Esto

By Anon / Spring 2026

I’m standing in line at the front office again.

There are a few kids in front of me, standing with that quiet shame you feel when you're just barely late. The office ladies don’t even need to ask my name anymore, my name is already written on the tardy slip when I reach the desk.

“Why are you late again, Evelyn?”

“Umm… Traffic,” I say.

They nod along at the same old story and finally give me my slip.

I take it and walk towards my first-grade homeroom class. I pull the door open just enough to slip in. Everyone is already on the go: pencils being sharpened, pages being turned, my teacher mid-lecture. I sit down and try to catch up, like always.

Same old story…until the phone rings.

It’s one of those old phones with the curvy cord, the kind that makes everything feel more serious. My teacher stops her lecture, walks over, and picks it up. As she listens, she scans the room. Her eyes land on me.

“Evelyn, go to the front office, please.”

I see a few heads turn. Getting called out of class is a rare and special occasion, to most it's a cause for celebration. Though I still have no idea why I’m being called.

I walk back down the same hall I just came from, my shoes tapping on the concrete floor. I reach the office door and as I pull it open…there she is.

My mom is sitting on one of the chairs, she looks up at me and smiles. I walk over to hug her and I see she is carrying something wrapped in aluminum foil. She gives it to me, it’s warm.

I unwrap it to see two quesadillas de maíz, filled with queso Oaxaca and frijoles. I have just realized how hungry I am. I sit down next to her and start to eat.

As I eat I catch a glimpse of her looking at me with her empathetic eyes, a smile on her face.

“No desayunastes, así que preparé esto para que comas.” You didn’t eat breakfast, so I made this for you to eat.

“Gracias Mamí.” Thank you Mommy.

I hug her before she leaves and, just like that, return to class. I come back to the same lesson, same pencils, same turning pages. But I return feeling different. I sit down at my desk. And for the first time that morning, it isn’t just the same old story.