Your father, truly, is a man of honor.
He doesn't really know how to be a person. To be well-groomed, to grit his teeth through polite banter, and to be selfish, sometimes, too, when the weather calls for it.
Although, he never truly said that three words. No, now, he would mutter and grunt other things, and still I would be grateful.
So I would manage a smile, using his mother's diamonds, and she would be so disappointed in both of us. He didn't think too much about it, for the first time, in his name and legacy, so he could marry someone impulsively.
Not like we were made for each other, we just didn't know or wanted nothing else. He would show his teeth to the old ladies, and I would be granted punching them.
Although now is different, and I still somehow put stitches on his back for every backstabber, both literal and symbolic. At late nights, when is too cold for either of us, and I would climb the walls waiting for him to come back.
So I manage the polite banter, to be the one making the shady deals and shaking people to the bones, as long he would never break the crystals and I would never stain his name.
What about it? We never truly wanted to change, to be different from our 9-year-old selves that would spill champagne in the rich man's suit.
Because we can make it work, I guess. He would say it, promise it, because he truly believed in it.
We probably could, we did, actually, even if neither of us truly changed.
But he is just a man. He's no angel descending from the skies to save humanity, and I was the one stitching every injury, promising to have his back and to never betray it.
"Marry me," he said, that one time. He was no man to drink, completely sober, at least from alcohol.
So miserable, the man didn't even ask. I wouldn't say no, anyway.
It hurt. Not the sensation or his demand. He didn't like seeing me cry, so I didn't. It was very proper, very hidden from the light and the media would only know until a month later.
I would manage to go to the parties and smile at the old ladies saying "In my day-", and I would resist the urge to say she should have died from old age. The whole city would say he was cheating on me, with anyone, everyone, and I was doing the same, but worse.
I laughed at it because, heavens, who they thought your father was? He didn't want any better, he wanted me.
Oh, but it broke his heart. He would grip my hand, he could break it but he wouldn't; buy and burn them twice just to be sure. It would be boiling over for enough time for him to be truly angered.
And when they say that fundraisers, shopping and tea parties were hell to do every day, they were right. Bloody right, I recall, as I wanted to set the canapé table on fire. He would let me, he would pay for it, and he would break the chin of every man saying I wasn't a proper wife.
(His father, if alive, would bail me out of jail, say I was equally hilarious and rightful.)
Okay, I said, answering, not the most traditional answer, you can be my house-husband. Like I ever was going to let any work slip through my finger, or any moment, for instance. He laughed, and I think that was the first time he laughed since his parents died.
The wood floor and the oil on canvas family pictures, and the candlelight, and his mother's diamonds; and I suppose he had a plan, somewhere, involving flowers and things straight out of a fairytale. Too bad, we never settled for anything besides each other.
He blurted the two words, demanding because that was what he made best, for the first time not following the plan.
We came back for each other, in progressively shorter intervals. Six years, one year, then five months, then one day, then every day, for the rest of our lives.
Like I was going to be a housewife. I can't fix whatever is wrong with him, but he can make me worse. We can make each other worse, if it works.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
You don't even know what an hors d'oeuvre is.
Your father, truly, is a man of honor. He kept his word, and we even managed to bring you to this mess, too. Until death do us part–
But he never said that three words.
I wouldn't love me either.
