Benvenuto a Tutto
Hello, everyone. Welcome to the Stark Manor.
I have gone by many names over the decades. Currently, most call me "Mrs. Stark". My husband calls me "Maria". My closest friend calls me "Angie". But by far, my favorite name is when my son, Anthony calls me "Mom" or "Mamma".
While many know me as Maria Stark, my birth name is Angelina Maria Colonna Martinelli. I was an aspiring actress and producers convinced me to "sanitize" my name--apparently, Maria and Collins were more "palatable" and Carbonell maintained the "Italianness" of Martinelli without being "overtly Italian". It didn't help much; all it did was change the name on the screen, making me feel less me.
Howard and I met through a mutual friend, Peggy Carter, but never spent much time together. Eventually, I was cast for a film, not knowing it was one of Howard's, and we met on set. Apparently, he became very attracted to the way I didn't try to throw myself at him, as many other women did.
My career didn't end up going very far. I did a few movies, starred in two shows, and had a couple Broadway moments, but by the time my star started to rise, I was "past my prime" according to most producers. Howard had finally convinced me to give him a chance, and the once again constant stream of no's were the final push I needed to accept his proposal. We built a life and I found a new job, a new purpose, in heading up Stark Industries' charity involvement. It was a chance to give back to the neighborhoods both Howard and I grew up in, fought for a chance at life in. We were a partnership, a well-oiled team. And then, everything changed.
On May 29, 1970, Anthony Edward Stark was born, all ten fingers and toes, healthy and whole, after a few failed pregnancies. I was ecstatic, as was Howard.
As time went on, he became so caught up in the company he forgot about us. I tried my best to become both parents for Anthony, but I know I failed far too much as a mother. In the end, the Jarvises' did a better job than I. Anthony was hurt, and he acted out, trying to get Howard's attention, but all his acting out only made his father more frustrated and withdrawn. It kept spiraling, and soon I began to worry the next funeral I would attend would be my son's.
Instead, on December 17, 1991, on a trip Howard requested I accompany him on--I deeply regret doing so; I had no idea Anthony was to return home--we were both killed. Or, I believe we were; I died, I know that much, and I assume Howard was killed after me. The next funeral was not my son's, but mine and my husband's.
The next thing I know, I've woken up in the Stark Mansion on Long Island, dust settled everywhere. Now I'm here, in the future, trying to find my place with my family once more; to find my place in this strange, new world.
