After the New Year break, we came back to the office to find a small gift waiting on each desk—a jar of homemade pickled vegetables.
Our boss, Alejandro Torres, stood awkwardly near the meeting room entrance.
“It’s just something my mother sent from her village,” he said, almost apologetically. “Nothing special.”
For a brief moment, no one said anything.
Then the comments started.
“Who even eats this anymore?”
“This is going straight in the trash.”
“They could’ve just given us gift cards.”
Laughter spread across the room.
I sat across from Carlos, who always treated everything like a competition between us. He held up his jar with a grin.
“Lucía, want to see who can throw it the farthest?”
I just smiled and said nothing.
Across the room, I noticed Alejandro’s shoulders sink slightly.
He had heard every word.
But he didn’t respond.
Later that afternoon, the break room was filled with unopened jars—left behind, unwanted.
They looked forgotten.
Even the cleaning staff seemed unsure what to do with them all.
Something about it didn’t sit right with me.
It reminded me of my grandmother back in Oaxaca. Every winter, she would make jars of pickled vegetables and send me home with one when I visited.
“Eat well,” she would always say.
That taste… it meant home.
So while no one was paying attention, I grabbed a box and started gathering the jars.
One by one.
Fifteen in total.
When I got home, I lined them up across my kitchen counter.
I opened one.
The smell hit me—sharp, but comforting. Not artificial. Real. Familiar.
I took a bite.
It was perfect.
Just like I remembered.
But something about it felt… off.