Every year when I wish my dad a happy birthday I ask him how old he is and every year he tells me 25. When I turned 25 he turned 25 too, and when I turned 26 it began a tradition to look forward to every year.

So over the weekend I called him up wondering what reason he was going to give this year. After the usual banter and the visual tour of wherever he is because it took a pandemic to get him to learn how to video chat, I asked how old he turned this year.

“Sesenta, mija!”

He finally gave up the act after thirty years.

This year has really done a number on all of us. Or more like three—my dad’s only turned 57.

By Desiree Zamora Garcia

I like to eat, think, and take things apart.

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