The Past Comes Knocking

"Nita has always been a heavy eater." My mother began, trying to make excuses for the amount of food I was eating.

Food was my comfort, and in the situation I was currently in, I needed lots of food hugs.

"She likes to make her own food; carefully and perfectly. So, when she becomes your daughter-in-law, you will need patience because her cooking takes hours."

Aren't we putting the cart before the horse? I thought. My mother was already months ahead, and I had not even met the groom yet.

Come on, Mom. Show some self-control.

I paused mid-bite of my food, glancing at her with raised eyebrows. She responded with a scowl.

You see, my mom wanted me to act perfectly, eat perfectly, sit perfectly. She thought that she was doing me a favor but I was the one doing them a favor or non selfishly put - doing 'us' a favor.

Mrs. Numero chuckled, "I am surprised you have such a perfect figure, dear. How do you manage to stay in shape?"

She glanced sideways at me, giving me an appraising look but I could tell that she did not approve. I was dressed in a dress my mother had bought and I couldn't make the additional effort to make the dress stand out.

Even though I had agreed to this arrangement, It didn't mean I liked it. It was like being a willing sacrifice heading to slaughter.

"Fast metabolism, I guess," I replied, reaching for my glass of water. As I drank, my father's gaze lingered on me.

Guilt; written all over it. I gave him a thin smile, trying to reassure him silently.

His own lips curved upward, with something that would be considered a sorry excuse for a smile. He was Abraham, leading his child Isaac to the altar, both literally and figuratively.

Mr. Numero, who was seated at the head of the table, cleared his throat and asked, "When did you say Junior would be arriving?" Mr Numero was a man of few words but looked capable, although in the short time we had been acquainted tonight, his wife seemed to be his weakness.

"For the fiftieth time, he said an hour ago," his wife responded, rolling her eyes, her fork clattering to the plate. Her beautifully manicured nails drummed the table in anxiety.

"It's fine," my mother chimed in. "We're not in a hurry. Besides, Junior is taking over the company, isn't he? He must be busy."

Trust my mum to make excuses for someone who obviously didn't deserve it. Busy? Sure. Busy being late.

I rolled my eyes so hard they almost fell out of my head. They might not be in a hurry, but I was.

We had been waiting – what – two hours now.

Mrs. Numero, however, seemed to be on a roll. "Don't make excuses for him, Becky. He's always been that way. Never listens to me, and does whatever he wants. Since his sister passed, he's been utterly impossible!" Her voice wobbled.

"Sweetie," Mr. Numero said, gently patting her hand, "perhaps these aren't things Nita needs to hear right now." He held her gaze, the love for his wife radiating through.

"Oh, pish posh!" she exclaimed. "She's practically family now! She should know what she's getting into."

She turned to her husband, her tone immediately turning to that of woe, "Besides, you're the one who spoiled him, Richard. You let him get away with everything! Taking him to work instead of letting me raise him properly. That's how children lose their values! Raised by secretaries and accountants…"

As she launched into her speech, my mother leaned toward me. "Remind me to use this next time on your father," she whispered.

Mr. Numero, desperate to restore order, threw down his napkin and grabbed his phone. His voice turned into a low growl as he barked into the receiver, "Junior, Do you have any idea how aggravated you are making your mother?... You have fifteen minutes to show up in this house, or I swear I'll make your life a living nightmare."

He gave his wife another worried look before continuing, "And trust me, I'm very motivated."

Mrs. Numero leaned toward me, a wicked smile on her face. "Numero wife rule number one," she whispered with a wink, "a little drama goes a long way."

I raised an eyebrow. "Good to know."

She nodded. "If you can cry on cue, you're already halfway there."

Just as I wondered how quickly I could escape through the nearest window, the butler entered. "Mr. Richard Junior has arrived."

About damn time. If lateness were an Olympic sport, he'd have a gold medal.

Mrs. Numero sprang into action, fluffing my hair. Before I could protest, she whipped out a lipstick from her purse and attacked my lips with it.

"There, now you're perfect!" she announced, beaming.

"Save me," I mouthed to my dad, whose smile seemed to have genuinely widened. It took me getting mauled by an old woman with red lipstick to get a smile from him; nowadays he rarely smiles; maybe because his company was going bankrupt or because he was giving his daughter out to save it like a trade-by-barter situation.

"Oh, darling," Mrs. Numero said, cupping my face in her hands, "I hope he likes you."

I hope not, I thought, but I managed a weak smile.

The sound of confident footsteps approached; his cologne reached me before he did—expensive and appealing.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself to face the man who I was being prepared to spend the rest of my life with.

"Good evening, everyone," came his smooth, authoritative voice. "Apologies for my tardiness; I was busy tying up loose ends at work. There was no need to threaten my balls."

Mrs. Numero let out a small groan in exasperation, covering her face with her hand. It was clear that her son seemed to love embarrassing her.

Junior stepped to my left, heading to greet my mother with a bow. "Mrs. Williams, you're as radiant as ever. Are you sure I'm marrying the right woman?"

"Oh, aren't you charming," my mother giggled. My mother giggled. Are you kidding me? She sounded like a high school girl.

I would have to help her look for the shame she accidentally left back at home. "You have grown up well. Last time I saw you, you were what – five?"

"It's been too long; I am sure we will be spending more time together these days with the current arrangement underway."

He turned to my father, going through his clear ritual of buttering everybody up. "Mr. Williams, I've heard great things about Wita. I'm sure we'll work wonderfully together."

Finally, he turned to me. My heart pounded loud enough for me to hear. I pushed back my chair and stood, determined to stay composed and collected.

"You must be the lovely Nita," he said, extending his hand.

"Actually, it's Benita," I corrected, shaking his hand firmly. Then I looked up at him—and froze.

My stomach did a backflip. It can't be!

It was him. The face I thought I'd never see again.

Memories of our last encounter flooded my mind, and the room seemed like it was spinning.

I don't know how long I stood there with my eyes wide open and mouth ajar. It seemed like I had been kicked in the gut.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his smile fading slightly. I snatched my hand back quickly and looked around the room.

I had to get out of here.

"I…" The world went black.