I was seriously up to my elbows in masa.

Rob sat on the floor of the living room, the annoying music of Minecraft playing, doing some sort of thing on the Xbox, I have no idea what. He once tried to explain the point of Minecraft and I never got it. But it seemed harmless and sort of creative, so I let him play. Twelve year old boys like video games, and I struggled with the tension of wanting to be a "cool mom" who let him do what he wanted, such as rot his brain in front of the television, versus wanting to be "mom the enforcer" who would tell him to ride his bike or read a book. As a single parent, I was both, and I couldn't decide which one was more important. Sometimes he needed a friend. Sometimes he needed a parent. Although I tried, it was impossible to do both well. Today was more "cool mom," since he was OD'ing on the Xbox. Still, I gave it my best and my son was sweet, polite, and fun.

Carlos Castro, my ex-boyfriend who got me pregnant at age seventeen, still lived in town and he saw Roberto every other weekend. The weekends I didn't have Rob, I took full advantage of, getting drinks with the girls and dancing.

Not that I didn't love my kid. Just every parent needs a break.

Carlos worked for his parents, who owned a chain of flooring shops; he was a manager. He made decent money and normally paid his child support. Our relationship wasn't so hot. We were always civil in front of Rob. Sometimes we were civil to each other when Rob wasn't around. But sometimes all hell broke loose when we were on our own.

I didn't really want to think about that right now. I was too busy making tamales.

My friends Georgie and Sara were in the kitchen, dealing with the corn husks, and my mother was finalizing the seasoned pork to go inside. Georgie was short, like me, but she let her hair frizz. She worked as a bookkeeper for an automotive parts dealer and told the best jokes. Sara was taller, more regal and elegant, and almost always wore white. She was quieter, but when she talked, it was important and made you laugh or made you think. And she always had the best clothes because she worked at Macy's and spent all of her money on the employee discount. And my mother was just like me, same height, same high maintenance, same looks. She was just twenty years older and a grocery store cashier.

Although we chatted while we worked, we all were intent on our tasks. Tamale making was serious business. And it meant that Christmas was coming.

My mother made tamales regularly, but for me, it was a once-a-year event, and I tried to make a ton to freeze for later. I always enlisted help because there were so many steps in the process. That said, it was fun. For example, even though it was barely ten o'clock, all of us were on our second margarita.

What can I say? It was a party. At least the type of party where you all had a job to do and needed to coordinate to make it all work well. So we drank, we cooked, we assembled, we chatted, we laughed, and we had a good morning.

It was Saturday, five days after I had met Jake, my neighbor. And I had spent the entire week trying to come up with ways to talk to him or run into him, and in so doing, I had deduced the following.

He was incredibly regimented. I heard his door open every morning at five-thirty. Then the door opened at six-fifteen. Then it opened again at seven, and never opened again until after seven or eight every night.

As far as I could tell, this meant that he went for a run every morning, first thing. When he left to go for a run, he wore a tight, white t-shirt and long, black athletic shorts, and he went out looking sleepy and came back bright-eyed and covered in sweat.

That only made him look better.

Then he went inside his duplex and I presume that he showered, ate breakfast, and went to work, working twelve hours a day and then coming back home. He always was clad in a pristine suit, even wearing the jacket, very formal, no shirtsleeves and tie for this guy. And his long hours? God, that type of schedule was so dreadfully boring.

I don't know what he did that made him work so much, but I hoped that he loved it, or at least got paid well for it. Based on the look on his face, though, I deduced that he was tired by the end of the day, and very done with life and what he was doing in it. He didn't look happy.

I made these deductions through careful observation and analysis.

Well, I could tell this by peeping out the little hole in my front door.

I was reduced to being a stalker.

He had not had any visitors the whole week he was there, although I had missed his move-in. I hoped that he was single. And he was very quiet, with no music, or even television blaring.

I wanted him to like the tamales, because if I was honest, I was not making them for Christmas. I was making them for him.

Just then there was a knock on my door. Hoping it was Jake, I scuttled to the front door in my heels, and opened it with my elbows, trying not to get masa on the door.

There was a man standing on my doorstep.

A bike messenger looking man, all wiry muscles, tattooed calves, and messenger bag.

And he pulled some papers out of his bag and handed them to me, saying, "Lucinda Figueroa?"

"Who wants to know?" I asked, the back of my hand on my hips.

"You are being served with this petition by Carlos Castro—" he started, as he handed the documents to me, and I screamed, "That SON OF A BITCH!" and then I clamped my messy, masa hand over my mouth because I remembered that Rob was in the room.

God, what an asshole. What was he trying to do this time?

I grumpily yanked the papers out of the messenger boy's hands and said, "Fine, the jerk has served me," and I slammed the door in his face.

Then I felt bad because it wasn't the bike messenger's fault.

So I gingerly opened the door again, and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. You're just the messenger and my ex is an asshole. I'm sorry. Have a nice day." And I smiled at him and then slammed the door again.

"Lucy," called my mother. "What was that all about?"

"Carlos," I muttered under my breath, and then I went into the kitchen. I set the papers down on the only clear surface, and then wiped the masa off on a paper towel. "Carlos served me with some papers. I'll read them after we are done here."

"Oh that cabron," my mother muttered.

"Mom!" I exclaimed.

"She's right," said Sara.

"Yeah, he's a pinche cabron," said Georgie.

"Rob. Can. Hear. You." I hissed.

"Sorry, girl," Georgie replied, immediately.

"Don't say sorry to me, say sorry to Roberto," I responded.

"Sorry, Rob," Georgie called out.

"No worries, Tia," he called back. Rob called both of my friends "Tia," or "aunt."

I let out a breath and managed a weak smile.

"Oh, that was ugly. Okay, let's finish these up."

Two hours later, we had dozens upon dozens of pork tamales, my kitchen was cleaned, my friends and my mom had gone home, and I had cleaned up and was sitting at my dining table, scared to read the words on the page.

Better do it, though.

I looked at the first sheet. It was a petition to modify child custody and child support. Basically, my ex wanted to take my child from me and pay me less in child support.

Bile rose up into my stomach and my hands shook. It didn't help that I had ingested three margaritas before lunch, and then had barely eaten any lunch. The room spun and I felt ill.

No way could he take away my child. No way could he threaten me with this. We were stable. We had a good home. We didn't need to change anything. Carlos worked all day. He wouldn't have time to take Rob to school or pick him up. What was he thinking? He probably just wanted to stop paying child support, because the more time Rob was with Carlos, the less child support he had to pay me.

Fuck.

I needed to call my lawyer on Monday. I hadn't had to use her in a while, but now, it looked like Carlos had just threw down.

I threw the papers on the floor and stamped out of the room, flinging myself on my bed. I did not need this. Everything was going so great. I did not want a legal battle and I didn't want Rob to see the ugliness.

After I lay there for a bit, I calmed down. I would call my attorney Monday morning, and until I talked with her, I didn't have to think about this. It was time to chill and enjoy the rest of the weekend, and it was time to give Jake the tamales that the four of us had slaved over for hours this morning. I had heard Jake leave that morning, and I had heard his door open a little bit ago. Time to make a delivery.

Calling to Rob that I would be back in a second, I slipped out of my house, a dozen warm tamales wrapped in foil. My high heels clacked on the concrete as I went over to his door and knocked.

After a second, the door opened, and Jake stood there, looking glorious, again, in jeans and a black t-shirt. His blue eyes bore into me. He had one hand on his door and the other on his cell.

"Hi," I said, "I made you some tamales," and I handed them to him.

"Uh, thank you," he responded, and then he closed the door in my face.

Seriously?

What the fuck was up with that?