My mother was the other woman.
A mistress, a homewrecker.
Although, to be fair, was there even a home to be wrecked? My mother gave birth to me at the age of twenty. My father who had already moved to another relationship wasn't in my life. I realized much later that my mother went through life with the support of men. To this day I wasn't sure if she loved any of the men she knew, or if she was sincere about it all.
When I was the age of six, my mother met a man by the name of Ricardo, a calm, collective man. One could say while he was smart and cunning--in the face of something like love, he was weak like every other man. My mother gave him the love affection he hadn't received being the lonely young master of a prestigious family.
I never got why such a family-orientated man would have a woman on the side until I encountered his wife. She was from a pretty well-off family herself, but from what I recall she didn't marry my dear father for love. As an arrangement between families, she got to live the life of a kept woman. Not sure why she didn't think another woman would've wanted that too the way she paraded his money, but whatever.
While my mother was the other woman, she didn't mind it. We lived in Spain with him for years. Papa is what I called him as a child and well into adulthood. He had paid for my schooling, and I spent the next twelve years at private Catholic academies.
Hell, you would think him and my mother were married the way he took care of us. He was the only father figure I'd ever known and even after my mother's death, he took care of me. After much discussion, I decided to go back to the US for my college years, more or less because of the feelings I had towards his family.
Other than a few of his family members, they despised me. Why wouldn't they? Papa was an extremely important man, muy importanto. The man owned several hotels, including quite a few in Valencia. He inherited the family business from his father and with his well-bred knowledge, built it bigger than it had been before. And he spends his time pampering the daughter of a mistress. Thanks to him, I had at least a comfortable life despite my obvious issues with everything.
We kept in touch through letters and calls. He brought up his son, who had been in the process of learning the ropes of the business. We were both busy with our own lives and didn't seem to have time for each other. Eventually, his letters slowly diminished. Phone calls became less frequent. By the time I finished graduate school, there was no sign of anything from him. I had assumed his wife, the matriarch didn't want him interacting with his former mistresses' daughter.
Five years later, my life went on as it did. I lived pretty quietly in the US, trying to scrape by working at a chain hotel's front desk. It wasn't as if I disliked my work, or my job--it was more like, I hadn't felt as if I belonged there. Maybe I was determined not to be like my mother and not to be dependent on people my whole life. So I worked hard to be more like my 'father' and hoped to one day manage a hotel in the same way he did. Time passed, I was already forty and could be regarded as middle-aged at forty, I was still working the same position, only my work had doubled. The more I worked, the less I thought about the man I regarded as a father, despite the fact that I did it in hopes of making him proud.
Then, it happened--Papa died.
I was notified of his death by his sister, who I had met quite a few times before.
"He had cancer--twice, Salome. ÂĄLo golpeĂł dos veces y no pudo ser tercero, sobrina! (He beat it twice and he couldn't make it third, niece!)" I could hear her sobs and felt myself slowly breaking down in my car as I ate my lunch.
"He didn't want anyone to know, especially you. You needed to get through school, he wanted to at least do that for you."
I wondered if he didn't want me to see him weak.
He had always been my rock, the person I relied on in the strange, cruel world we live in.
Given the funeral details, I caught the quickest flight back to Valencia for his funeral. Of course, I had stood out like a sore thumb in my white suit by the time I arrived at the funeral hall. He did say he liked it and most when I wore white. What a joke--the mistress' daughter arriving at the funeral where his actual legitimate child was.
A son, in his twenties; whom of which I had yet to meet, not as if I wanted to.
Fraternize with a man whose mother treated me like some ugly step-child--I think not the fuck. I'm old enough to know to involve myself with danger. I wanted to pay my respects and leave. There's nothing left for me here now that he's gone. I don't have my mother either.
I step towards the open crowd quietly pulling down the black cap I had on.
On the day of her mother's funeral, he took me out to a small beach to bask in the sun; only two were in attendance. I didn't even know if her mother had a family, or if they even knew that I existed. There, we scattered her ashes and promised her existence was for our eyes only.
I try to gather my thoughts--trying to cry as the reality of the whole thing dawned on me. I was really alone at this point. He had been my world for my whole life. Tears trickled down my cheeks, a feeling a dread poured over me. I crouched down in the middle of the funeral hall, letting everything engulf me. Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I saw a pair of familiar warm, brown eyes.
"Are you ok?"
Papa?
No, it couldn't be. He was too many decades young to be him. But he looked so much like that, maybe he was his son. I quickly yet gently move his hand, replying,
"I am good, really," I emphasize, replying back in Spanish--dusting myself as I stood up. The face of concern came from a tall younger man. Possibly in his early thirties? His queer set of features was indictive of his mixed heritage, having a Spanish father and a Thai-Chinese mother. His youthful elegance made me self-conscious of the few grey hairs I've found popping up during periods of stress. He wore a classy suit--a black one with gold accents, along with a watch and gold chains to match.
His eyes, much like his father's, were a soft brown.
"May I ask who you are?" His Spanish is rough, tinged with a smoked accent and deep tone. Possibly because he didn't speak too often or that it wasn't his native tongue.
"Oh, there you are my son! Dante, we have to meet for the reading of the will." A voice I recognized too well calls out. Papa's wife, Ai. Could this day get any worse? Being pitied by his son and discovered by his ex-wife.
Maybe it's best for me to leave.
As I turn away, a name is called--this time my own.
"Salome! I thought I'd never find you." Papa's sister, Inés called.
"Au--" Right, we weren't family in the slightest, only bound by one man. I should refrain from calling her Aunt, in any instance. She should call her properly, by her name.
"Hello, Miss Inés."
"Salome...Nevermind. Come with me." I was confused--what did she want from me?
"Aunt? Do you know her?"
Dante questioned, looking over at me with a puzzled look on his handsome face.
Shit, shit!
Fearful that his mother would see me and cause me more trouble, I quickly grabbed her hand and pulled her to the side while shielding my face.
"What is this all about? What could anything at this funeral possibly have to do with me?" I ask, almost with trepidation.
I was antsy about being in the room with these scornful, rich people any longer.
Inés hesitates, pulling me closer as she whispers in my ear.
"Ricardo had a property for you on his will. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but he discussed it with me a few days before he passed. I wouldn't dare discuss the matter with that wife of his. She was already spiteful enough of both you and your mother, so... I don't trust her one bit. Now come, we'll have dinner when it's read."
Papa Santos left me something?
That sappy old man. He already helped me enough in life. Why couldn't he just left things be?
I quickly used Inés as a shield, hiding my face from public view.
While still covering my face, we rode to a familiar place: the Santos family home. While I didn't live there, I often went to see my father.
My heart drops when I see him. Santos' son. If he didn't look like the spitting image of his father, I didn't know who did. Those dark eyes that with a face, that while boyish, could break lots of hearts.
And he looked my way, frowning at me.
His mother probably said a lot of (untrue) things about me.
Oh dios mios (Oh My God), he's getting closer.
Please don't make a scene, I don't want to be here as much as you don't want me here.
He suddenly grabs me and we disappear to a hallway of many in the house.
He sizes me up--almost in suspicion.
"When I was younger, I would often see your pictures in Padre's room and I wondered who you were. Which begs the question: Who are you? Who are you to my father?"
Too close. He was standing in front of me, forcing my back against the right wall of the hallway. Pushing him away, rather roughly, I looked him up and down.
"Eres guapo como Santos. Låstima no heredan sus modales también. Don't worry about who I am." (You're handsome like Santos. Too bad you didn't inherit his manners as well.) He chuckles, surprised either by my boldness or my familiarity with speaking to him.
Either way, I didn't care and walked back to the dinner table which I was met with Inés and Jia sitting at an opposite end.
Jia glared at me, following the intense expression to Dante, who trailed after me. This is why I didn't want to come here, at all. Their family seemed to be messed up and I didn't want to be a part of that. My mother only got away from it out of death and me when I went to America for college.
The past is something I don't want to rehearse, nor reprise my role in.
Inés, puzzled as I sat beside her, offers me a glass of Merlot regardless as an older man came into view. He must be the executor of Santos' will. I recognize him as Santo's personal assistant, Hermes.
He spots me staring and gives me a little wink before making his way.
Oh, Hermes, you charm me.
I wondered what surprises he has for me during the will read. What did Papa leave for me? It couldn't have been much. He had a legitimate heir to worry about. Plus that wife of his wouldn't even let him think of putting my name anywhere near the will.
"Mr. Santos, as you all know, was a very particular man. He revised his will very often, to the point it had the latest version of it filmed a week before he died. However, while the paper will talk about property and matters of business, Ricardo instructed me to film a video addressed to Miss Salome and Mr. Dante in particular."
A grey-haired, sharply dressed man came into view as the tv flicked onto life. It was a man I knew but he looked so different. I didn't remember him looking so thin, with the image of his broad back always there. His eyes were bloodshot, and he sat in his favorite throne, with an IV drip accompanying him.
Such a powerful man, rendered weak by illness.
Ah.
My tears came already, and I don't think they'll stop.
"Princess, this is Papa. Have you been well? I'm sorry I haven't contacted you in a while. How long has it been? Over ten years, I presume. I missed you very much." I smiled through my tears at the sound of his rich voice, clutching Inés' hand as we all watched the video.
"Papa."
"I met you when you were a newborn. Your mother and I met, not too long before when she was still pregnant. She was mysterious, wonderful, and kind. When I met her a second time, she held you in her arms and you were so tiny as a premature baby. I fell in love for the second time in my life. I felt that I wanted to protect this small thing, that was innocent. I wanted to be your father and take care of you. But, I felt as if I failed you by pulling you into the mess that was my relationship with my wife at the time. When you told me you wanted to manage a hotel and worked towards it, I felt as happy as I did when my son wanted to follow in my footsteps. My only son, Dante. Oh, you're just like your old man aren't you?" Ricardo laughs, coughing a bit, but choosing to continue on with his words.
"So young, with such a dominating presence. Although I couldn't have a hand in raising you much, I am glad you came to be a wonderful man with his head on his shoulders. And even more, that you're my precious child has made such a name for himself. To know my two children have grown to be so accomplished, this old can say his time on earth was well worth it. That being said, I wanted to give you two something very important. Hermes will fill you in with details. I expect you two to do well. Again, I love you both. Adios." The video stops and both Dante and I glanced over at Hermes in anticipation, both wondering what he had in store.
"About ten years ago, Senior Santos began building a hotel for lovers in Valencia, called Princess. He discussed many times about building a new hotel and figured, why not start at one of the busiest capitals? He named the hotel after Miss Salome, a girl that he often called his Princess. He intends to have the property stay in Miss Salome and Mr. Dante's name, under one condition."
I felt as if all the expressions around the room dissolved into confusion, along with my own.
He begins to stall, glancing at our expressions.
What was he getting at?
Spit it out, you feeble old man!
"You two will have to be wed and produce an heir."