Growing up in a Cuban family, like most Caribbean households, food was everything. The kitchen was the heart of our home, where pots simmered, and the sizzle of onions and garlic in oil was as familiar as the sound of our own voices. My mother made cooking an art form, a way of loving us that didn’t require words. If she fed you, she loved you. That was the unspoken rule, a tradition passed down like recipes written in memories instead of on paper.

But love in our house was always tangled with duty, and as the years went on, my mother’s meals became wrapped in something heavier. The same kitchen that once felt warm and comforting now holds a great tension. Frustration has seeped into her cooking, leaving behind flavors of unspoken resentment.

Last night was one of those nights. I was working late on my laptop in her living room, when she appeared from the kitchen carrying a lovely plate of fried fish. I was prepared to fast for the night, but she surprised me! While she handed it over I smiled and did a little happy dance, singing “Thank youuuuu,”. My voice was full and bright, hoping she could feel my genuine appreciation.

For a moment, she was pleased, a small smile broke through. But the warmth faded just as quickly. She shut down the moment with her signature dish: criticism. Her voice, sharper than any knife she could have used, cut through: “How do you not feel guilty?” she asked me in Spanish. Different language, same sting. She walked away shaking her head at me.

I paused, confused, as the joy slipped away. The guilt she insisted I should feel was over the laundry I hadn’t moved from the washer to the dryer yet. She had done it for me, adding the plate of food to the tally, piling up these tasks as proof that she carries it all while I just "dilly-dally"🤪.

My slowness has always triggered her. She grew up in a family where her siblings were beaten in front of each other if things weren’t done quickly or perfectly enough. And yet here I am, rebelling, by taking my time. Should I just fall in line? Her father made them line up by their beds each morning, ensuring it was spread well, then out to the fields they went. They were just children!!! I try to help her talk through her past, so she can process it and not bubble the pot over and burn me. Little by little I learn more. I know that she was the only one that stood up to her father, so when I don't stand for the manipulative tactics dished out, shouldn't she feel proud?

Too often, in Caribbean homes, love and resentment get served on the same platter. So I set the fork down. This meal is seasoned with guilt and expectations I can’t meet. I told her I couldn't eat it, the perfect opportunity for a conversation, but instead she went to her room to pray. Will this prayer be the one that brings about relational change, or will I find another plate of food in front of me tomorrow, her silent way of calling a truce? In a Caribbean home, the food is the apology. But at some point, love needs more than a plate—it needs words. The kind that heal, the kind that don’t just simmer under the surface but is spoken aloud, bridging the gaps that food alone can’t fill. There's still work to be done.

I don’t have all the answers. So, I just keep praying, too. I ask God to take this plate from me. To teach her to rest, to teach me to let go of guilt that doesn’t belong to me. I believe that pain can be seasoned with grace until it becomes a meal that feeds the soul, something sweet to the taste. Thank you, God, for my mama.

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^{If this resonates, ensure to speak genuinely from your own heart and continue the conversation in your own words.}

^{Heavenly Father,}

^{You are the Great Redeemer, the One who transforms pain into grace. I lift up both my heart and my mother’s to You. Season our struggles with Your grace and bring healing where wounds run deep. Lord, Your Word says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (Psalm 147:3). I ask that You fulfill this promise in our lives. Help her find rest from the burdens she’s carried for so long, and teach me to release the guilt that was never mine to bear. Fill our relationship with Your love, a love that feeds the soul and brings true peace. May Your hand guide us toward understanding and wholeness. Thank You for holding us and loving us with a steadfast, unfailing love.}

^{In Jesus’ name,}

^Amen.

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_{Self-Reflection Prompts}

1. ^{In your household or culture, is confrontation embraced or avoided? How does your family approach conflict resolution, and do you think this method has fostered healthy relationships?}
2. ^{In moments of frustration or misunderstanding, do you invite God into the situation? How does your faith shape the way you handle difficult family dynamics?}
3. ^{Have you ever felt that love from a family member came with strings attached or expectations you couldn’t always meet? How did that impact the way you view yourself and your worth?}
4. ^{Can you think of a time when you stayed silent or “kept the peace” to avoid conflict? How did that choice affect you emotionally, and do you think it was worth it?}
5. ^{When have you realized that distance or setting boundaries was necessary for your well-being? How did you come to that decision, and what impact did it have on your relationship and your sense of peace?}
6. ^{How do you balance empathy for someone you care about with the need to protect your own emotional health?}

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