Cuando era pequeño, era muy común que en la familia los hijos pasaran temporadas de vacaciones con los tíos. Era una especie de intercambio familiar en el que, en mi caso, estrecharía relaciones con mis tíos, mis primos y su entorno. Se buscaba expandir los lazos familiares y, a la vez, fortalecerlos. Esto provocaba una gran unión, un gran amor y, en el caso de los primos, no eran solo eso: eran los hermanos que no vivían en casa.
No importaba la edad que tuviéramos ni la de los primos; todos nos conectábamos como una gran familia, y era hermoso ver cómo, al llegar a sus casas, éramos recibidos como unos héroes.
En ocasiones, o en alguna vacación escolar, al llegar a casa de algún tío, me encontraba con que los primos no estaban. Claro, ellos andaban de visita en otra casa, y eso me llevaba a compartir más con los tíos. Los tíos se transformaban en mis padres por ese período vacacional. Cuánto agradezco tan maravillosa idea de mi gran familia. Esa práctica la extendí luego con mis hijos y sus primos. Soy feliz cuando los veo juntos como si fueran hermanos, y a mis sobrinos los amo tanto como a mis hijos.
Pero había cosas que pasaban y que solo hoy, en este escrito, salen a la luz. Esas cosas ocurrían en casa de un tío en particular, que vivía bien lejos de los demás integrantes de la familia. Ese tío tenía once hijas y un hijo. Estaba orgulloso de su hijo porque era el mayor y se graduó con honores. De sus hijas no hablaba mal, las amaba, pero siempre decía que eran su dolor de cabeza. Ellas eran algo… vamos a decir, alegres. Todas, desde la más grande hasta la más pequeña, y desde la infancia, mostraron ser unas preciosuras del género femenino.
A mí, en lo particular, me daba una alegría extrema cuando me tocaba ir a esa casa. Y si alguna de ellas venía a la mía, yo me sentía como el campeón de campeones, todo un medallista olímpico. Con las primas aprendí a besar, supe lo que era apapacharse y sentir ese calorcito abajo. Eso era apoteósico.
Pero mis primas, aun siendo bellísimas, tenían un pequeño problema: no sabían vestir. Las combinaciones eran tan extrañas que mamá decía que parecían una caja fuerte, por esas combinaciones tan cerradas.
Seguimos creciendo y algunas de mis once primas se pusieron más hermosas y otras no tanto. No es que se pusieran feas, sino que no se esmeraron en mantener la figura y sus cuerpos explotaron hacia los lados. Esto trajo graves consecuencias: la ropa seguía mal combinada, pero ellas se empeñaban en usar vestidos muy ajustados.
Cuando se les decía, con suma delicadeza, que había una distorsión en su manera de vestir, ellas expresaban que era un vestido mal hecho (badly made gown). Pero mamá, en su estado, a la vinagreta, les decía que parecían un bollo de maíz mal amarrado o, como decimos los venezolanos, una hallaca mal amarrada.
Hasta aquí mis cinco minutos.
Todos los derechos reservados. © Copyright 2021-2026 Germán Andrade G.
El contenido original fue escrito para:
3 February 2026, Freewriters Community Daily Writing Prompt Day 3003: badly made gown por 
Todas las imágenes fueron editadas usando CANVA.
Es mi responsabilidad compartir con ustedes que, como hispanohablante, he tenido que recurrir al traductor Yandex Translate para poder llevar mi contenido original en español al idioma inglés. También, hago constar que he utilizado la herramienta de revisión gramatical Grammarly.
En algún lugar del planeta, 3 de febrero de 2026.
When I was a child, it was very common in my family for children to spend vacation periods at their uncles’ houses. It was a kind of family exchange in which, in my case, I would strengthen my bonds with my uncles, my cousins, and their surroundings. The goal was to expand family ties and, at the same time, reinforce them. This created a strong sense of unity and affection. When it came to cousins, they were not just cousins — they were the siblings who did not live under the same roof.
Age did not matter, neither ours nor that of our cousins. We all connected as one big family, and it was beautiful to see how, upon arriving at their homes, we were welcomed like heroes.
Sometimes, during a school break, I would arrive at an uncle’s house only to find that my cousins were not there. Of course, they were visiting another relative. That circumstance led me to spend more time with my uncles, who would temporarily become my parents for that vacation period. I am deeply grateful for such a wonderful idea from my extended family. I later carried that tradition on with my own children and their cousins. I am happiest when I see them together as if they were siblings, and I love my nieces and nephews just as much as my own children.
But things were happening back then that only now, through this writing, come to light. Those things took place in the house of one particular uncle who lived far away from the rest of the family. He had eleven daughters and one son. He was proud of his son because he was the oldest and graduated with honors. He never spoke badly of his daughters — he loved them — but he always said they were his headache. They were, let’s say, lively. All of them, from the oldest to the youngest, showed from a very early age that they were beautiful expressions of the feminine.
Personally, I felt an extreme joy whenever I got to visit that house. And if one of them came to ours, I felt like the champion of champions, an Olympic gold medalist. With my female cousins, I learned how to kiss, discovered what cuddling meant, and felt that warm sensation down below. It was apotheotic.
But my cousins, even though they were stunning, had a small problem: they did not know how to dress. Their outfit combinations were so strange that my mother used to say they looked like a locked safe — everything tightly closed, everything overly matched.
As time went by and we all grew up, some of my eleven cousins became even more beautiful, while others not so much. It was not that they became ugly; they simply did not put much effort into maintaining their figure, and their bodies expanded sideways. This brought serious consequences. Their clothing choices remained poorly matched, yet they insisted on wearing very tight dresses.
When someone gently suggested that there was something off in their way of dressing, they would always say it was a badly made gown. But my mother, in her vinegar state, would say they looked like a poorly tied corn bun or, as we Venezuelans say, a badly wrapped hallaca.
That’s my five minutes.
All rights reserved. © Copyright 2021-2026 Germán Andrade G.
The original content was written for:
3 February 2026, Freewriters Community Daily Writing Prompt Day 3003: badly made gown by
All images were edited using CANVA.
Somewhere on the planet, February 3, 2026.
It is my responsibility to share with you that, as a Spanish speaker, I have had to resort to the translator Yandex Translate to translate my original Spanish content into English. I also state that I have used the grammar-checking tool Grammarly.
