The Martinez family reunion happened every July at Uncle Carlos’s ranch in Hill Country, Texas. Seventy-five people crammed onto five acres. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, second cousins twice removed. Mariachi music, carne asada on the grill, kids running through sprinklers.
I’d driven three hours from Austin that Saturday morning, my Honda Accord loaded with grocery bags and a cooler full of Mom’s requested potato salad. I was exhausted. We had just closed our Series D funding round at $558 million, and I’d been on calls with investors until 2:00 a.m. But family was family, so I showed up.
The chaos hit me the moment I parked. My sister Gabriella was already holding court by the pool, showing off her engagement ring to a cluster of aunts. My brother Miguel was talking real estate deals with Dad and the uncles. My cousin Sophia’s kids were screaming and splashing water everywhere.
“Nina, you made it.”
Tía Carmen hugged me at the entrance, smelling like perfume and tamales. “We thought you weren’t coming.”
“Traffic was bad on I-35.”
“Always is. Come, come. Everyone’s asking about you.”
That couldn’t be good.
I found Mom in the kitchen with Abuela and three other aunts assembling enchiladas.
“Mija, finally. The potato salad?”
“In the car. I’ll grab it.”
“And you drove all the way from Austin in that old car? Nina, when are you going to get something reliable?”
“It is reliable, Mom. It’s a Honda.”
“It’s twelve years old. It runs perfectly.”
Tía Rosa looked up from chopping cilantro. “How’s your little business, Nina? Still doing the computer thing?”
“Healthcare software?”
“Yes, still doing it.”
“Making any money yet?” Tía Carmen asked with that tone, the one that meant she already assumed the answer was no.
“We’re doing fine.”
“Fine isn’t great, mija,” Abuela said, patting my hand. “You’re twenty-nine years old. Maybe it’s time to think about getting a real job. Gabriella works at that law firm. Miguel has his real estate company. What do you have?”
“A healthcare technology company.”
“Yes, yes, your startup. But when does it become real?”
I’d been hearing variations of this conversation for six years.
“It is real, Abuela.”
“Then why do you still live in that tiny apartment? Why do you drive an old car? Why do you dress like a college student?”
She gestured at my outfit: jeans, a simple white T-shirt, and sneakers.
“Because I’m comfortable,” I said.