Still Sixteen

Dear Ma,

At my house, I have become strangely capable.

I can host dinners now.

I know how to stretch leftovers into proper meals.

I own matching bowls.

I say things like “let the onions caramelize properly” with alarming confidence. 

Since I moved out, I have become someone I think you’d be proud of in a kitchen. I make bread now. Proper loaves. I can save a dinner that’s going sideways. I can bake a cake from memory.

But the moment I come home to you, all of that disappears.

Suddenly, I cannot even boil water.

You tuck fruit beside me before I ask.

Coffee appears exactly when I am thinking about it.

You tell me to wear my flip-flops so many times that eventually I obey like I am sixteen again.

I become completely, gloriously useless in your presence.

The other day, I told you I could make the best damn eggs.

This was a lie supported entirely by confidence and Instagram reels.

I had scrolled through way too many reels of beautiful women making eggs in spotless kitchens.

Their hair softly curled. Sunlight pouring through windows. Jazz probably in the background.

In that moment, I believed I was one of them.

So I walked into your kitchen determined to prove it.

I whisked the eggs dramatically.

Tilted the pan professionally.

Moved around with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business being confident.

Then I forgot to add oil.

The eggs burned instantly.

I had watched too many beautiful women make French omelettes. 

I had also watched The Bear. In my head I was both. 

The eggs disagreed.

And yet, because it was you, I still showed you. 

You make failure feel survivable.

Anywhere else, I would have hidden the burnt omelette and laughed it off before anyone saw.

But with you, I become brave enough to fail publicly.

And you, being you, looked proud anyway.

Not because the omelette was good.

God knows it was terrible.

But because your daughter had walked into the kitchen and tried.

I think that is what home really is.

I have been failing in front of you my whole life. You have never once looked away.

Happy Birthday, Ma.
Thank you for loving me long before I became capable.