Chapter 12 - THE QUESTION SANTIAGO KEPT FOR NINE YEARS
“You know that messed me up for a while.”
Santiago said it without accusation.
That almost made it worse.
We sat at my kitchen table on a rainy Sunday.
He was nineteen now.
College had sharpened his face.
His father’s jaw.
Marisol’s dark eyes.
His own personality.
No longer a Salgado heir walking around inside a child’s body.
Just Santiago.
I looked at him.
“I know.”
“I thought you meant you didn’t want us.”
“I never meant that.”
“I know now.”
He tapped his fingers against the table.
“But back then…”
“You were ten.”
“Yeah.”
I waited.
He looked toward the window.
“Dad told you to pick one.”
“Yes.”
“Like actually?”
“Yes.”
“One of us.”
“Yes.”
“Which one did he expect?”
I almost laughed.
“I never asked.”
“He must have thought Matthew or Eli.”
“He said you stayed because you were oldest.”
Santiago leaned back.
“That is insane.”
“Yes.”
“He really said divorced women shouldn’t be alone?”
“Yes.”
He covered his face.
“I’m never getting married.”
“Your father being ridiculous is not evidence against marriage as a concept.”
“I’m using a broad data set.”
I smiled.
Then he became serious.
“Which one would you have picked?”
The question hurt even after nine years.
“Still none.”
He frowned.
For a second, he was ten again.
Then I continued.
“Because choosing Matthew means leaving you and Eli.”
He listened.
“Choosing Eli means telling you and Matthew your brother mattered more.”
His eyes filled.
“Choosing you means accepting your father’s idea that he could assign children to adults.”
I reached across the table.
“My answer was none because the question itself was wrong.”
Santiago stared at our hands.
“I should have said that.”
“You were kind of busy.”
“I should have said all.”
“You did later.”
“Reporters don’t count.”
He smiled.
Then:
“I hated Lucy.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“For like two weeks.”
He looked ashamed.
“I thought you picked her because she was biologically yours.”
I closed my eyes.
“Santiago.”
“I know.”
“You were a child.”
“I was horrible to her.”
“You barely spoke.”
“Exactly.”
He swallowed.
“I remember her asking if I wanted to play Legos and I told her no because she was the reason you left.”
That broke something inside me.
“Did she remember?”
“Probably.”
“I need to—”
“No.”
He squeezed my hand.
“We talked about it years ago.”
“You did?”
“She told me I was stupid.”
“That sounds like Lucy.”
“Then she gave me half a cookie.”
“Also Lucy.”
He smiled.
“She knew it wasn’t her fault before I did.”
Children survived adults in strange ways.
“Do you ever wish you had never found out?” I asked.
He thought.
“No.”
“Really?”
“I wish we found out differently.”
Fair.
“But knowing Marisol…”
His face softened.
“I’m glad.”
I nodded.
“She’s your mother.”
“So are you.”
My throat closed.
He looked almost annoyed.
“Do not cry.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I have allergies.”
“In November?”
“Climate change.”
He laughed.
Then grew quiet.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Did you hate Dad?”
“Sometimes.”
“Grandma?”
“Sometimes.”
“Marisol?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Do you now?”
“No.”
“How?”
That question deserved thought.
“I stopped believing forgiveness meant agreeing what happened was okay.”
He listened.
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
“I also stopped believing anger was the only way to prove it mattered.”
Santiago looked down.
“I’m still angry sometimes.”
“You’re allowed.”
“At Dad.”
“Yes.”
“Grandma.”
“Yes.”
“Even Marisol.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
“You’re not offended?”
“Of course I’m offended.”
He laughed.
“But you get to be angry with me.”
“I was angry you left that night.”
“I know.”
“I understand now why.”
“I hope.”
“But seven-year-old Eli cried for like six hours.”
My eyes burned.
“I know.”
“You couldn’t take us?”
“Not safely.”
He nodded.
“Lawyers.”
“Lawyers.”
He grimaced.
“Rebecca is terrifying.”
“She’s still my friend.”
“That proves you have poor survival instincts.”
I smiled.
Then Santiago asked:
“Did you ever want full custody?”
Honesty.
“Yes.”
He looked surprised.
“There were nights I wanted all four of you in one house and everybody else gone.”
“Even Marisol?”
“Yes.”
“Dad?”
“Especially Dad.”
He laughed.
“But wanting something and believing it’s right aren’t the same.”
I continued.
“You needed your father.”
He nodded.
“You eventually needed Marisol.”
Another nod.
“And Lucy needed Alex.”
His expression changed.
People sometimes forgot that.
Alex had failed me terribly.
He remained Lucy’s father.
“He got better,” Santiago said.
“Yes.”
“Do you think he would have if you stayed married?”
I thought.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because consequences gave him nowhere to hide.”
Santiago nodded.
“Do you think Grandma changed?”
“Some.”
He laughed.
“Careful.”
“She still wants to know everybody’s five-year plan.”
“She asked my girlfriend whether her family owns property.”
I closed my eyes.
“Oh, Theresa.”
“I told her they own a toaster.”
I laughed so hard I cried.
“There’s the Salgado heir.”
“Former heir.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“The trust still recognizes you.”
“I know.”
“But you hate the word.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“Because it makes me sound like I’m waiting for somebody to die.”
That was painfully intelligent.
“What do you want to be called?”
“Santiago.”
Easy.
Fair.
The front door opened.
Lucy walked in.
Fourteen now.
Tall.
Wild hair.
Carrying three shopping bags she definitely did not have money for.
She stopped.
“Why are you two crying?”
“We’re not.”
Santiago wiped his face.
“You are.”
She put down the bags.
“Family trauma?”
“Basically.”
She grabbed a chair.
“Without me?”
Santiago groaned.
“Go away.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“What happened?”
“He asked about the day I said none.”
Lucy’s face softened.
“Oh.”
She remembered more than I thought.
She looked at Santiago.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You hated me.”
Santiago stared.
“You said you forgot.”
“I lied.”
I looked at her.
“Lucy.”
“What? I was five.”
Santiago covered his face.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
She shrugged.
“You gave me twenty dollars when I was twelve.”
“That was unrelated.”
“I decided it was reparations.”
I laughed.
Then Lucy leaned against him.
He put an arm around her.
There.
The girl.
The heir.
Labels that once separated them.
Now meaningless.
The doorbell rang.
Marisol.
She arrived carrying enchiladas.
Five minutes later Alex came with drinks.
We had not planned family dinner.
That was how family dinners happened now.
By accident.
Theresa arrived last.
Invited by Lucy.
Of course.
She entered carrying pie.
Looked around.
Santiago.
Matthew, home from a friend’s house.
Eli, sketchbook under his arm.
Lucy stealing cheese.
Me.
Marisol.
Alex.
She stopped.
“What?”
I asked.
Theresa shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Dangerous word.”
She almost smiled.
Then her eyes settled on a framed photograph near the shelf.
One she had given me years earlier.
Me holding the three boys on Eli’s first Christmas.
Theresa walked toward it.
“I took that.”
I had forgotten.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“You were there?”
She looked at me.
“I was always there.”
The irony sat between us.
“Yes.”
“You were.”
She sighed.
“I wish I had seen what I was photographing.”
I understood.
She had seen heirs.
I saw sons.
Now maybe we both saw men becoming themselves.
Dinner became loud.
Matthew argued with Alex about college football.
Eli showed Marisol an illustration.
Lucy stole pie before dinner.
Theresa pretended not to notice.
Santiago sat beside me.
At one point, he leaned over.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“None was the right answer.”
I looked at him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled.
“Because Dad’s question was stupid.”
From across the table, Alex heard.
“I have apologized.”
Santiago laughed.
“Still stupid.”
Alex raised his glass.
“Fair.”
Something inside me finally released.
Nine years.
One word.
None.
It no longer hurt the same.
Because the boy who mattered most had finally understood.
But our story was not finished.
The happiest part was still ahead.
Two years later, Santiago would stand in front of the entire Salgado family and make a decision Theresa once would have considered unthinkable.
He would be offered a formal path into Salgado Holdings.
A title.
A salary.
A future people had planned for him before he could walk.
He would look at his grandmother.
His father.
Me.
Marisol.
Then say:
“No.”
May you like
Theresa would nearly faint.
And I would laugh harder than I had in years.
