Unplugged

The vitamin gummies clattered as Maya's mom dumped another bottle onto her desk. "These'll help you focus, mija. Finals are coming."

Maya stared at the neon-orange bears. At seventeen, she'd rather fail pre-calc than choke down another chalky supplement. Her mom meant well—that frantic immigrant energy, wanting Maya to have every advantage.

But today, Maya's brain felt like it was buffering. Like the old cable TV at her grandmother's house, the one that still required a coaxial cable and somehow only played Telemundo.

"Abuelita needs help," her mom called from the kitchen. "The television isn't working again."

At her grandmother's apartment, Maya knelt behind the TV, navigating through dust bunnies and spiderwebs. The cable had come loose again—just a simple tighten, but to Abuelita, it was magic.

"You're so smart, mijita," Abuelita beamed, pressing a warm tortilla into Maya's hand. "Your father? He couldn't fix a toaster."

Maya smiled, but something twisted in her stomach. Her dad—estranged since she was twelve—had made it big in Austin. Startup founder. Tesla driver. The kind of guy who probably didn't know what coaxial cable was anymore because he'd cut the cord years ago for some premium streaming service.

At school that week, Tyler caught her between periods.

"Heard your dad's coming to the robotics showcase," he said, leaning against her locker. Tyler was handsome in that way that made girls forget their own names. Also: completely full of bull.

"He's not," Maya said. "He's busy."

"That sucks." Tyler's expression was carefully sympathetic. "Wanna come to the bonfire instead? My cousin's bringing his acoustic guitar."

Maya almost said yes. Almost.

Then she remembered the vitamin gummies at home, the way her mom's forehead creased when she thought Maya wasn't looking. The way Abuelita called her smart.

"No thanks," Maya said. "I've got something to do."

That night, she helped her mom organize the pantry. Grouped all the vitamin bottles by expiration date. Made a system.

"You don't have to take them," her mom said quietly, noticing Maya's skeptical face. "I just... I worry you're missing things I can't give you."

Maya hugged her then. Mom smelled like cumin and worry and love.

"I'm not missing anything," Maya said.

Later, she texted her dad. Just a picture of the fixed cable connection at Abuelita's. No caption.

He replied almost immediately: "Tell her I said hello. And I'm proud of you, Maya. Always."

Maybe some things didn't need perfect connections to work. Maybe the loose cables, the imperfect moments, the clumsy attempts at caring—maybe those were the vitamins that actually mattered.