I sat across from Carlos, who loved treating me like competition. He held up the jar and joked,
“Lucía, want to see who can throw it the farthest?”
I just smiled.
Across the room, I noticed Alejandro’s shoulders drop slightly.
He had heard everything.
But he didn’t say a word.
Later that afternoon, the break room was filled with unopened jars—abandoned and unwanted.
They looked… forgotten.
The cleaning staff didn’t even know how to deal with so many.
Something about it bothered me.
It reminded me of my grandmother, who used to make pickled vegetables every winter back in Oaxaca. Every visit, she would send me home with a jar.
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