The next morning, I walked into a bustling kitchen as my mom and Diego prepared an elaborate breakfast. Mom doesn't usually cook breakfast, so this was a special occasion. She smiled at me as I approached the counter and glanced at the plantains she was frying. She stuck out her hand and warned, "Be careful, the oil will jump at you."

I nodded, backing away from her space. Diego was mixing a bowl of eggs right beside her while eating the fruit salad she had made the day before. Diego started humming a tune, and she grinned, nodding her head. I wasn't familiar with the song, so it must have been something they both shared.

I haven't seen her this happy in a long time.

Why did Diego ever think that we were better off without him? Couldn't he see how much Mom adored him? Diego was a ball of positive energy. Everything he said and did made people like him.

"I swear I can cook just as well and maybe even better than you," he teased.

"Don't start with that. You know how insecure I am about my cooking," she said.

"Mami, I'm serious. My roommates taught me! They're both great at cooking," he said.

Diego patted my back as I sat down at the table, handing me a plate of scrambled eggs and fried plantains. "We made breakfast," he said.

"I see that," I said, placing the plate on the table. Diego received a nod from my father as he entered the kitchen. That was his manner of greeting my brother and saying "good morning."

"Buenos dias, mijo," my dad said, touseling my bed hair. "You're not getting dressed?" He asked.

I shook my head and responded, "No, this weekend is a stay at home weekend."

He smiled. "Okay, rest is good. Maybe we can practice later today?"

I shrugged and scraped my fork over the plate. Dad and I used to practice guitar together, but these days it hasn't been working out. His schedule is too busy, and I don't like practicing with him as much as I used to.

"So, Diego, what's been happening?" Dad asked, taking a seat at the table and drenching his eggs with hot sauce. He always ate his food with something spicy. Any food that had none was considered bland. Mom's already warned him about eating too much spicy food, but he likes to think it'll never affect him.

Diego placed his plate on the table and sat back in a chair. He said, with a nod, "I've been doing good. I'm working at a packaging facility, and things are going well so far."

Dad glanced at Mom with a knowing look. Dad must have suspected him of lying, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he nodded and returned his gaze to his plate, eating quietly.

"You think I'm lying?" Diego scoffed, shaking his head.

"No, mijo. Es que a veces—"

My mom interrupted my dad and said, "We're happy that you're doing well. We believe you."

Diego shook his head and resumed eating, loudly clanking his fork on the plate.

"What are the names of your roommates?" Mom asked, attempting to ease the tension that filled the room. Mom fiddled with her necklace as she waited for his response. This was our first meal as a family in years, but the tension in the air made it difficult to believe we were ever a family.

"Carson and Thomas, I've been living with them for awhile now. They're really nice," he said.

"Do they both cook? You're very lucky," Mom said.

"How old are they?" Dad asked.

"26 and 28," Diego explained.

"And still roommates? No girlfriends or wives?" Dad mumbled, "They're getting old."

"They're dating," Diego said. "They're gay. Carson was my original roommate, but then his boyfriend moved in."

"Oh, well, I guess they don't really need a wife anyway since they can cook—"

"Yeah, because women are only good as maids," Diego said, rolling his eyes.

"That's not what I said. They just already take on a different lifestyle."

"How is knowing to cook a different lifestyle?" Diego asked.

I never realized how delicate my brother's relationship with our father was. They didn't seem to get along based on how Dad argued with him and how Diego dismissed his comments. When it came to the two of them, Mom would frequently have to be the peacekeeper.

A lot of it had to do with how they carried themselves, especially Diego. Diego had a good sense of identity and never felt ashamed about it. He did the things he wanted, even if other responsibilities were ignored. In some ways, I guess he was irresponsible, but the kind of irresponsible you're supposed to be in your twenties. 

My dad was the polar opposite. He would frequently plan for things weeks in advance, and he had goals that he followed on a daily basis. He was an adult, and his own irresponsibility had resulted in his biggest responsibility at the age of 17, his son.

"Damián, come on. They're good to him," Mom said.

"I didn't say anything," Dad said.

"You're being rude," Mom said. "I grew up like you too. Don't act like I don't know what you mean."

"I'm not saying anything," he replied.

"Sometimes you can be an asshole," Diego said.

"Watch your mouth, mijito. I'm not the one who abandoned my family for—"

"Basta! Damián, déjelo en paz. Por favor, déjelo—" Mom stormed out of the room before she could finish. She sounded like she was on the brink of crying.

While Dad and I sat at the table in silence, Diego chased after her. I watched as my father poured more hot sauce on his plate, his expression emotionless. At times like these, I wish my dad was more transparent. I had no idea what was going through his mind. Actually, I don't think I knew much about my dad.

He only talked to me about two things: music and my mom. I still thought we had a close relationship, but not as close as other sons might want to be with their fathers. My father and I both had the same problem: we never talked. At least not about the important stuff.

We never talked about why Diego left, why I stopped swimming, why I had broken up with April, or about Jackson. Wouldn't these be important things to talk about with me? I'm not sure I blame him. I don't like to talk either. But sometimes it feels like he doesn't make an effort to get to know me.

"Apollo," my dad said, shaking me from my thoughts.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Why don't we go into my study and play something?" He asked, setting his plate in the sink.

I followed him into his study room. It was more of a music shrine, but Dad would never admit that was its sole purpose. His study should be dull and boring, but it's filled with instruments. Mostly guitars and a few brass instruments, but his record collection is my favorite part. It's a collection of vinyl records my parents have put together. It's mostly 80's music, but I like it.

He and my mom fought over who would have this space. He finally got it because of his job. He's a marketing manager who travels extensively due to the nature of his job. I'm not sure what he does, but all I know is that he despises it. He constantly expresses his frustration with his career, but he manages to get through it.

"I want to play some songs with you," he said, smiling.

"Dad, I'm a little tired."

"Oh, okay..." He trailed off. "It's just that your mother has been in a mood these last few days, you know, with Diego around." He sighed and continued, "And since I'm off this whole week, I thought you would play with me, 'cause she might think it's cute and all."

"I don't wanna play a love song for you guys. It's gross."

"It's romantic. The ladies love it, and I bet a special someone would appreciate something like that," he said.

"Right..." I mumbled. Dad thinks that I still want to be with April, and that I have to 'win' her back. Even though I've told him many times, it was me who broke up with her. I don't think he understands it.

"Hell, I'd like it if someone played me a song. Your poor mother, though, she's hopeless when it comes to musical ability."

"Yeah," I replied.

He pointed towards the couch, for me to take a seat, and began playing a familiar riff.

I always liked listening to my dad play music. Whether it was guitar, piano, or trumpet—to name a few—he was just as talented. My mother called him a prodigy when it came to stuff like that. So, it was a mystery as to why he decided to become a businessman instead of a musician.

"With or Without You," I said, nodding in rhythm.

"She's always loved U2," he said, smiling. 

My dad had a certain way he went about our relationship. He would show me enough affection to let me know he cared about me, but back away from showing me how much he loved me. It was always a nice pat on the back, followed by a "buen hecho, mijo." Nothing more, and nothing less.

I wanted more, but I don't think I'll ever get that. I don't think my dad was ready for that, and maybe I wasn't either. He wasn't the type of dad to openly show the love he had for his sons. That probably had a lot to do with his own father and family.

I guess music was one way of connecting us.

"You want to be on the keys or guitar?" He asked.

"Dad, I suck at the piano."

"Practicas," he said, strumming away on his guitar.

"I thought you wanted to make up with mom?" I said.

"The reason why you're bad es porque eres huevon, " he said, ignoring my comment.

"Dad, I really don't want to! I don't even know why you're doing this since Mom always gets depressed after she hears you play." I muttered, getting up from the couch. "It would just make things worse."

"Hey, hey, hey!" He said, sticking his hand out in front of me. "What's with this attitude? I'm just trying to spend some time with you! Why am I being attacked? Que te pasa?"

"Nothing. I just don't want to play right now," I mumbled.

Dad nodded and continued strumming. His gaze shifted away from me and back to the strings of his guitar. "All right," he said.

I turned away, twisting the door knob until he said, "I know it's getting close to...uhm... those dates...uhm... so if things are getting worse..." He paused for a moment. "Uhm, let your mother know."

"Right," I said, leaving the room without turning back.

Maybe my dad gave me too little of himself.