Abuela Approved

Aprobada por Abuela

Meeting my abuela was the final test. Everyone knew that.

"Is she always this scary?" she whispered before we went in.

"She's not scary. She's discerning."

"Same thing."

Her name was Mariana, and she'd passed every test so far. My mother loved her. My siblings adopted her. But abuela—abuela was different.

"She decides if you're family," I warned. "Be yourself. But better."

"That's contradictory."

"Welcome to family."

Abuela examined her like a detective. Asked about family. About work. About intentions.

"Do you love my granddaughter?"

"More than I knew was possible."

"That's a good start. Now make me coffee."

The coffee test. The final hurdle.

Mariana made café cubano the way I'd taught her—strong, sweet, with the foam on top.

Abuela tasted. Said nothing. Tasted again.

"It's acceptable," she finally pronounced.

From abuela, that was a blessing.

"She likes you," I told Mariana afterward.

"She said 'acceptable.'"

"That's love in abuela language."

Abuela danced at our wedding. Held Mariana's face in her hands and called her "mija."

"You're family now," she declared. "Don't disappoint me."

"Never," Mariana promised.

She kept her promise. Abuela sees it in her eyes every time we visit.

"To the ones who pass the test," we toast.

"To abuela's approval," she adds.

Abuela approved—the highest honor, the truest welcome, the beginning of forever.