“I love quesadillas,” I declared, while we both sat on the curb. You look at me. My mom had just made me my first ever quesadilla, sliced it up and everything. 

I’ve never had one. Do they taste that good? you asked in response. I give you a shrug, as a third grader, I didn’t know much. 

“They taste okay, the cheese tastes funny though,” I mumbled as I put a slice up to our faces, “I like the slices though, because now I can share,” I smiled at you.

Why would you want to share your food? You questioned. You look at me as if I had just said Cleo was the best H20 mermaid, which is wrong since Rikki is the best. That was one of the few things I, as a 7 year old girl, could say with utter confidence.

“Momma said when you share something, you love something,” I repeat my moms words as she had said the day before, when my sister and I were arguing about who should get the remote.

 We stayed silent for a few moments before I piped up again. “Quesadillas are now my favorite food.”

Yeah? You turned to me.

“Yeah.” I nodded, handing you a couple slices.

And that day, there on the curb, the tradition started. Every Saturday afternoon that year, we’d share my quesadilla on that curb. I loved quesadillas, I still do, but I still gave you my own half every week that year. Maybe your mom didn’t have quesadillas for you to eat at home.

But then one day in 10th grade, when I couldn’t eat, and wouldn’t eat, you came up to me.

You came up to me and gave me a slice of your own quesadilla.

How dare you give me love in the way I wished to be loved in the first place.