Abuela's Blessing

La Bendición de Abuela

"My abuela is going to eat you alive," Sofia warned as we pulled up to the house in Little Havana.

"You could have mentioned that before I agreed to Sunday dinner."

"Where's the fun in that?" She squeezed my hand. "Just remember: answer in Spanish when you can, eat everything she puts in front of you, and whatever you do, don't refuse the coffee."

"What happens if I refuse the coffee?"

"You don't want to know."

The house was small but immaculate, with a Virgin Mary statue in the front yard and the smell of ropa vieja wafting from every window. Three generations of Fernández women stood on the porch, watching us approach like judges at a trial.

"Mami, Abuela, this is Michael." Sofia clutched my arm. "Be nice."

Her mother looked me up and down. "¿Hablas español?"

"Un poco, señora. Estoy aprendiendo."

"Hmph." She turned to Sofia. "At least he tries."

But Abuela—small, white-haired, with eyes sharp as broken glass—just stared at me in silence.

Dinner was an interrogation disguised as hospitality.

"What do you do for work?" (Engineer. Stable income. Good.)

"Where are your people from?" (Ohio. Suspicious, but acceptable.)

"Are you Catholic?" (Lapsed, but I didn't say that.)

Through it all, Abuela said nothing. She watched me eat her ropa vieja (delicious), her arroz con frijoles (perfect), her yuca (better than any restaurant). When Sofia's mother brought out the cafecito, I accepted the tiny cup with both hands and drank it without flinching, even though it was strong enough to restart a stopped heart.

Finally, Abuela spoke.

"Ven conmigo." Come with me.

She led me to a small room at the back of the house—a shrine, really, with photos of ancestors and candles flickering before painted saints.

"Do you love my granddaughter?" Her English was accented but precise.

"Yes, señora."

"Why?"

I thought about it—really thought, because this woman would accept nothing less than the truth.

"Because she makes me want to be better than I am. Because her laugh is my favorite sound. Because I can't imagine a future that doesn't have her in it."

Abuela studied me for a long moment.

"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a chair by the window.

I sat. She pulled out a worn leather album and began flipping through pages—black and white photos of Cuba, of her wedding, of children I recognized as Sofia's mother and aunts.

"My husband was a good man," she said. "Not perfect. No man is perfect. But he loved me like I was his whole world." She tapped a wedding photo. "Fifty-two years. Until the day he died, he looked at me like this."

"He looks happy."

"He was." She turned to me. "You look at my Sofia the same way."

"Is that good?"

"It's everything." She took my hands in her small, papery ones. "Mi nieta deserves a man who will love her through the hard times, not just the easy ones. Who will fight for her, not against her. Who will learn her language, her food, her family—"

"I'm trying, Abuela."

She smiled for the first time—a small, secret smile.

"I know. That's why I'm giving you this."

She pressed something into my palm: a small gold ring with a tiny emerald.

"This was my grandmother's ring. Her mother brought it from Spain, and it has been in our family for five generations."

"Abuela, I can't—"

"You can and you will." Her grip tightened. "When you ask my Sofia to marry you—and you will ask her—you will use this ring. Not some store nonsense. This."

My throat closed. "How do you know I'll ask her?"

"Because I see the way you look at her. The same way my Ernesto looked at me." She released my hands. "Now go. Tell no one about this conversation until you're ready. But know that you have my blessing."

When I returned to the living room, Sofia looked terrified.

"What did she say? Are you okay? She didn't show you the album, did she? The album is—"

"She showed me the album."

"Oh God." Sofia buried her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry. She's crazy, she—"

"She's wonderful." I pulled her close. "Just like you."

"What did she say?"

"I'll tell you someday."

I proposed three months later, with the emerald ring and Abuela watching from her chair with tears streaming down her face.

"Sí," Sofia said, then "¡Sí, sí, sí!" as I slid the ring onto her finger.

Her mother wept. Her aunts cheered. And Abuela caught my eye and nodded once—a secret between us, a promise kept.

On our wedding day, she pulled me aside again.

"You have made an old woman very happy," she said.

"You gave me your blessing. I'm just trying to deserve it."

"You do." She kissed both my cheeks. "Now go marry my granddaughter. And give me great-grandchildren before I'm too old to enjoy them."

"Yes, Abuela."

"And Michael?"

"Sí?"

"Your Spanish is getting better. Keep practicing."

I practiced every day—with my wife, with my in-laws, with our children, who grew up bilingual and loved Abuela's ropa vieja as much as I did.

The blessing of a Cuban grandmother is not given lightly.

But once given, it lasts forever.