I wasn’t supposed to be home yet. I’d returned early from my sister’s, hoping for a quiet evening with my husband, Javier, and our six-month-old, Dante. But as I stood frozen in the doorway, keys still in hand, my heart sank.
Javier was dressed head to toe in a ridiculous devil costume, complete with horns and a cape. And my baby lay on a mattress, blissfully unaware.
Then, in a moment of disbelief, Javier jumped over Dante.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I screamed, my voice shaking.
He stumbled, almost tripping, while his mother recorded the entire scene, pride evident on her face.
“It’s a tradition from my village in Spain,” he stammered. “El Colacho. It wards off evil spirits and protects babies.”
“Are you insane?” I demanded. “You jumped over our child like he’s an obstacle!”
“It’s not dangerous!” he insisted, raising his hands. “I promise I’d never hurt him.”
“Then why not tell me?” I felt betrayed, blindsided.
“I didn’t think you’d understand,” he said, guilt creeping into his voice.
“But I deserve to know! You can’t just spring this on me!”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, shoulders slumped. “Next time, no surprises.”
I sighed, holding Dante close. “Okay. But no more jumping over him.”
Javier nodded, relief washing over his face. “Let’s talk about traditions over dinner.”
As we headed downstairs, I felt a mix of frustration and understanding. Maybe I could learn more about his culture—just not like this.
