I used to worry that maybe "Daddy", as I tried to call him, was more of a father to Memo and Iridia than he was to Christy and me. "Don't take it personally," my mother would reassure me. "He doesn't have the restaurant anymore. He's just too tired to live the way he did." The way he lived was that if you were with him, you had all of him. But if you were, say, the wife at home, counting on him for anything at all, well…. His sole purpose in life was to enjoy it. The way my mom tells it, Guillermo was the handsomest, most charming man she'd ever met, and next thing she knew, they were married: "We used to fly to Vegas on a moment's notice. We'd go to Mexico City for the weekend. And then I had you two, and he was still flying to Vegas on a moment's notice, still going to Mexico City for the weekend." Once, he went to Mexico City for the weekend and didn't come home for three months. Every few days he'd call and say, "Aye, Mami! I'm sorry. I ran into so-and-so, and I'm staying a few more days. Besos." By the time he did come home, she'd moved us back across the border, to San Diego, and when he walked in and said, "Mami, I'm home," she tells me, she couldn't even get mad at him. "That was Guillermo."