Estella wasn’t the type of parent to fuss over our nutrition. In fact, she seemed to actively dislike cooking, and when she did venture into the kitchen, the results were often inedible. Meal preparation became an inconsistent affair, with Estella making lunch roughly 60% of the time and occasionally attempting dinner.

One morning, a particular incident etched itself into my memory. Liam, around five, and I, about four, were playing when hunger pangs struck. Despite the time being well past 8 am, Ricardo had already left for work, Estella groggily told us to go back to sleep and wait. Impatient, Liam took it upon himself to cut an apple for us. Never having handled a knife before, he held the apple in one hand and awkwardly stabbed the blade through it for leverage. When the knife became lodged, Liam instinctively grabbed the opposite end of the apple, directly over the pointed tip. As he pushed, the knife sliced through his palm, and blood immediately began to gush. Panicked, he cried out, and I rushed to the first aid kit, grabbing paper towels. We pressed them against his bleeding hand, and I applied a band-aid.

Still shaken and seeking comfort, Liam went to wake Estella. Her response was a dismissive, “I am trying to sleep, what do you want?” Liam, tearful, showed her his injured hand. Her reply was a callous, “Looks like you got it all figured out. Go to the living room, I am trying to sleep.” Her concern for her sleep far outweighed any worry for his safety or the fact that a five-year-old had been wielding a butcher knife.

This incident wasn’t an isolated one. Liam and I quickly learned to fend for ourselves when hunger struck. It became a running joke in our family that Liam would wake up in the middle of the night, drawn by the refrigerator light, to devour a jar of peanut butter. He was a hungry five-year-old, yet instead of considering the underlying reason for his nighttime cravings, our parents simply laughed at his expense.

In stark contrast to her indifference towards our hunger, Estella indulged in a daily ritual of fast food, often maxing out credit cards in the process. Diet Coke was a non-negotiable staple, and she would frequently visit McDonald’s twice in a single day. At least once a day, she would purchase a full meal and her beloved Diet Coke for herself. We, on the other hand, were treated to fast food sparingly, perhaps once every week or two. On these occasions, Liam and I were relegated to sharing fries and a drink from the dollar menu, while Lilah received her own kids’ meal.

Estella also possessed a distinct “Karen” persona, particularly when it came to her fast-food orders. Light ice in her Diet Coke was a crucial requirement, and she had an uncanny ability to detect even a slightly excessive amount through the drive-thru window. If her specifications weren’t met, she would berate the unfortunate worker, declaring their incompetence and demanding to speak to a manager. The drive-thru was her sanctuary; venturing inside was an unacceptable inconvenience. If she desired something only available inside, she would dispatch one of us, armed with her credit card, to retrieve it. Liam, being shy, meant I was usually the one sent in to do the talking, with him trailing along as my reluctant companion.

One particularly terrifying incident occurred when I was eight and Lilah was five. Estella sent me into a grocery store to grab her a Diet Coke. Inside, I witnessed a masked man attempting to steal a woman’s purse, violently wrestling her amidst displays of wine bottles. Lilah, witnessing the chaos from the entrance, fled back to the car. I froze momentarily before chasing after her. Estella, initially surprised by our frantic return, quickly dismissed our story, asking, “Did you get my drink? I am sure he is not there anymore. Go back inside and get it.” Lilah was too traumatized to return, so I went back in alone to fetch the soda.

Estella had numerous food fixations and precise orders from various establishments, Subway being a prominent one. Her standard order was a six-inch BLT with double bacon. She had a meticulous system for counting the bacon strips, ensuring the sandwich artist didn’t cheat her. If a piece appeared small, she would loudly protest, “No, no, no, that is a half piece, and I am paying double!”

Often, Estella would purchase large quantities of food items, cookies, candy, specialty treats, solely for herself, explicitly forbidding us from touching them. She would sit and eat these in front of us, even instructing us to look away when our gazes lingered too longingly. While we were provided with food, the allure of her forbidden snacks was always strong.

Interestingly, despite her seemingly haphazard approach to our general nutrition, Estella had one unwavering requirement: we had to be physically active. She ensured we were always signed up for at least one sport and attended daily practices to stay in shape.

It’s difficult to fully disentangle the reasons behind Estella’s behavior. It’s possible that an undiagnosed struggle with depression contributed to her detachment and seeming lack of concern. Simultaneously, the patterns suggest a perspective where the duties of motherhood were perceived as burdensome chores, rather than opportunities for connection and growth. In addition, Estella often seemed to believe that everyone was out to get her, which may have contributed to her inconsistent care and tendency to prioritize her own needs over ours. She may have been preoccupied with protecting herself from perceived threats. Regardless of the primary cause, the result was a childhood experience marked by inconsistent care and a sense that our needs were often secondary to her own.