The first time I tasted butterscotch I was at my best friend, J’s, house. Her mom had let us make cookies, and instead of chocolate chips we added butterscotch ones. For me, it was love at first taste.

Like everything else about J’s house, butterscotch was warmly comforting and slightly exotic.

As the oldest of an ever-growing tribe of siblings, I had considerably less “child” in my childhood than one might wish for. There were chores and responsibilities around every corner.

J was the youngest in her family. I spent many a Sunday afternoon, between morning church and evening church, snugly ensconced in their home, and many an idyllic summer-sleepover morning devouring books that weren’t in my family’s library while the rest of the house slept.

It was a novelty, having nothing expected of me for those few hours. We played games without any toddler interruptions. We scaled the fence in the backyard and ran amok in the empty fields, pretending we were riding horses, or we were horses. We made mud pies from the adobe clay in the garden, ate the sweet and sour plums from the tree behind the shed.

I tried to express to her, once, why I thought she had it so much better than I did. I couldn’t give a good explanation then, for I hardly understood myself what I felt at her home that I didn’t at mine.

My typical day started with getting dressed, then getting someone younger than me dressed. By the time I was 7, I was also cooking breakfast for the family. At the age of 10 I completed most of my chores with a baby in one arm and a toddler hanging from my leg.

My time was not my own from a very early age. I was expected to not only do my chores and complete my schoolwork, but also entertain younger children, change their diapers, help potty-train them, spoon-feed them, calm their crying, mediate their fights, put them to bed and keep them from hurting themselves.

I felt different in J’s home than in my own, because my time there was the only time that I had only myself to take care of. Only myself to worry about, only my own behavior to monitor.

It was so peaceful, so relaxing, to not be “on call” for a few hours. At home I was always available and listening. I picked up fussy babies, changed poopy diapers, reported on wayward siblings. Always on the alert.

As the years passed I became more and more attuned to everything around me. My mother was emotionally unstable, and I would listen for the slightest shift in her breathing, a change in her stride, in order to head off crises.

I jumped to quiet the younger children. I rushed through my own schoolwork so I could be more available. I had little time or space for just being me.

But every now and again, the warm silk of butterscotch would melt across my tongue, strange yet familiar, and every now and again I would catch a glimpse of myself, just me, and think, “maybe I’ll meet her again someday.”