The signs of the upcoming Mother’s Day celebration began last Tuesday. Men walked down the street with red and white checkered boxes adorned with Felicidades, Mama written in curlicued script, cakes carefully tucked inside, the pink icing trickling away in slow rivulets in the heat. Sidewalk vendors sold real and fake flowers, posters inscribed with overly sentimental poems and pictures of fluffy cats, and all types of chucheria—pins, little statues, and an assortment of tacky dust collectors. As Wednesday turned into Thursday and Thursday gave way to Friday, the build-up for Mother’s Day had gotten intense. Saturday night, the family downstairs threw a rocking party for the neighbor Benita, pulling chairs into the street, cranking up the music, passing around tragos, and accommodating guests, both invited and uninvited.

It was then that I realized I hadn’t brought any gifts.

I tried to play cool, like I had everything planned out. “We’re going out to eat on Sunday,” I told Elida. “Que va?!” she said. “It’s too hot to go out, it’s too expensive, and the food is probably bad.” I offered another idea: “Do you want me to take you to do your hair?” “Estas loca?! I can do my own hair.” Accustomed to this dynamic of offer-reject-offer-reject, I waited for the next part of the script, which is just as predictable as a novela: “So what are you going to get me for Mother’s Day?” she said, with a cluck of the tongue.

I was saved from an answer by a knock on the door; Brayan arrived with flowers, neighbors brought Happy Mother’s Day post cards, and my sister-in-law’s husband showed up with a celebratory bottle of homemade rum. Even my niece, the malcriada, had bought a set of coffee cups for her mother. The next door neighbor’s wayward husband came home bearing a single sweetheart rose for all the mothers in the building. Whatever sins he’d committed during the week were forgiven on the spot. The downstairs neighbor’s phone started ringing off the hook—she’s the only person in the building with a phone—with calls from family members abroad, including Francisco, phoning to say, “Felicidades, Mama.”

After everything settled down, Elida finally agreed to go out for dinner. Waiting for a taxi, she got tired and said she wanted to go home. She complained all through dinner—the rice had too much flavor, the service was too slow, and the water was too hot-- but as I write this, she’s talking with Francisco, saying it was the best Mother’s Day ever. Happy Mother’s Day from Havana, where everything turned out okay after all.