Their Story, My Dream

My parents grew up in New York City, the city that never sleeps, right in the heart of the Bronx. Though they lived just a block apart and went to the same school, their worlds were different, and they didn’t know each other. Still, they crossed paths daily, unknowingly setting the stage for a story that would begin in the fourth grade and change their lives forever. 

Mom lived in Eastchester Gardens Project, a place alive with community: kids playing in big groups, abuelas calling out from windows, and salsa music mixing with the sounds of the city life. From her sixth-floor window she could see people coming and going, kids playing in the courtyard, older men arguing over dominoes, and the guys who gathered around a bench, sparking joints and drinking 40s. It was her world-within-a-world, bordered by black gates. 

A block away, Dad lived in a private house with his mom. Immigrants from the island of Trinidad and Tobago, they lived under one roof with fifteen family members supported by the earnings from my grandmother's four jobs. Dad’s street was quieter, lined with private houses where neighbors kept to themselves more, sitting on stoops, and watching kids from windows. Dad would sometimes pass the kids from Eastechester on his walk to school, crossing the invisible line that separated the projects from the houses. Maybe he glimpsed Mom there in the crowd of kids once or twice, becoming memorized by the way her wavy hair flowed in the wind. Still, it would take her time before she believed it was with him she’d be living happily ever after.

On the way to school, the streets were filled with loud voices and the smell of breakfast drifting from open windows. Mom led the way, holding her little brother's hand as they walked. She was friendly and confident, making friends easily, yet she remained focused and reserved. 

Just a block away, Dad was also heading to school, either walking alone or with a friend from the neighborhood. His pace was slower, and he maintained a steady gaze. Dad had a quiet confidence that made him stand out. He was the “cool” kid, loved to dance, and some might even have called him the “class clown.” As he walked, his sneakers scuffled the pavement with a rhythm that matched his mood. His friend chatted about basketball practice, but his mind wandered, locking his googly heart-eyes on my mother. What was it about her? Was it the confidence she had without even trying? The way her words carried weight, even when she wasn't saying much? The answer, only time could tell. Their contrasting energies, and her smart-liked mind, only drew him to her more, and fourth grade was about to get a whole lot more intense. 

Each day, Dad would sneak into school early and leave small surprises on her desk: Three Musketeers bars, $1 Blow Pop lollipops from the deli, and heartfelt handwritten notes. He’d carefully place them where she’d be sure to find them first thing in the morning. 

Mom was focused on school, and wasn’t interested in his playful attempts to get her attention, often giving the candies she received to her best friend, Melissa. Melissa had a crush on my dad’s best friend. She was convinced that if my mom struck up a conversation with my dad, it would make it easier for her to get closer to his friend. With Melissa’s unmatched persistence, she begged my mom to spare five minutes with my dad. Just five minutes, she promised. My mom, being the best friend that she is, agreed reluctantly. Five minutes of awkward chatting, before she went back to Melissa. Suddenly those five minutes turned into five days a week. Soon, it wasn't about Melissa’s crush anymore. … It was about Mom and Dad. 

As I sit here writing this piece at the table, I glance at an old photograph of my parents hanging on the wall in front of me. The picture, slightly faded, shows them in their thirties holding my sister and me as babies. The way they look at each other in that photo shows a bond nothing can break. When I reflect on their journey, I can’t help but picture them as the young people they once were. Their fourth-grade classroom dynamic unexpectedly turned into middle school dances, then into senior prom. The same stages I’ve lived through on my own, they lived together. Their love grew into something even bigger: marriage, the birth of their first child, buying their first home, and moving from their childhood neighborhoods to build a new life for my sister and me. 

I think about them now, decades later. My mom still has her reserved grace, and my dad’s humor still lights up every room. They still bicker over who left the food out last and laugh at jokes only they understand. 

When I watch them now, flashes of their younger selves appear, like scenes from an old movie that I could watch a hundred times. It’s as though those five minutes never ended; instead, they've just grown richer with time. Their story is unexpected. How often does young love evolve into something lasting? 

As a little girl, I dreamed of having love like theirs. To me, their story was a fairytale come to life, and I was the princess just waiting for my time and dreaming of my own “happily ever after.” In my childhood imagination, love was simple, what I saw in the household reflected all my beliefs. But, as a teenager, I grew skeptical of whether young love, or love at all, was possible. Was their story just a rare chance? 

Now, I see their love differently. It’s not the fairytale I once thought it was. It’s something much deeper and more real. My parents’ story has taught me something, life has its own rhythm and so does love. Sometimes it takes years to find it. Other times, love finds you when you least expect it, like when you’re just doing a favor for a friend, agreeing to five minutes you’re sure will lead to nothing. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Sometimes, it’s in the smallest moments, the ones you don’t see coming. My parents’ story is proof that when something is meant for you, it will always find its way back whether you’re ready for it or not.