You and Javier had dated for a long time. For two years, and he still hadn’t met your parents. You on the other hand had been to his family’s birthdays, cookouts, quinceañeras, weddings and even a funeral.

Javier noticed how you refrained from talking much about them, but he knew they were alive and well. He had found out when he, in a fit of frustration after one of your fights about this exact topic, had used his clearance as an agent to look them up. They didn’t live more than an hour from Laredo.

Was it a sign that you didn’t want to commit to him?

Once the thought entered his mind, it only grew stronger. One day it got so strong, that he all but forced you to invite them over.

It was a Thursday night when he would finally get to meet your parents. Your tiny apartment had been prepped for the dinner, and you had spent the majority of the day cooking, an anxious ball forming in your stomach.

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.” He kissed the side of your head when he entered the kitchen and saw your taut face.

But it wasn’t. He didn’t know your parents like you did. How they would judge and scrutinize every part of you and Javi’s life. The way your mother saw you as competition and took every opportunity to drag you down or the way your dad despised ”those damn immigrants”.

They were both in for a ride, and you feared Javi’s would be even worse than yours.

“They aren’t good people, Javi,” you mumbled as you cut the last garnishes for the mashed potatoes.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“I guess I’ll see for myself.”

Please God, let them be normal assholes and not racist ones.