Madrasta

There’s this one feisty woman making sure that our house is almost liveable. With four messy cavemen, this task is no walk in the park. She is currently THE woman of the house.

But she’s not my mom to call. I simply refer to her as “the mother of my brothers”, I call her “ate” (big sister), as that was how she was first introduced. She is, after all, just a few years older.

‘Twas just around five years ago, that I’ve somehow accepted the fact that she is indeed already part of the family. I was finally done with college, ready to become slave to the work force jungle, and most importantly, out of the roof that she claimed to be queen of.

But before those 5 years, we were simply arch enemies. She was that bitch who made my life a living hell. And I was the brat who made her wish my dad didn’t come with a spoiled brat in tow. I made it a point for her to realise that my dad and I were a package deal made in hell. And at one point my goal was to get rid of her.

She was just too different from all those women my dad dated. Aside from my dad being more than 20 years her senior, I just couldn’t help but compare her with the “others.” They were mostly as meek as Maria Clara, as sophisticated as Princes D. But she was simply Annabelle Rama and Nanay Dionisia on amplifiers. The first time I saw her I already smelled trouble.

All hell broke when she got pregnant and we started playing house. She could’ve been the evil step mother, but too bad for her I was no Cinderella. I was Denis the menace times ten.

Though we never really engaged on a verbal spat cum wrestle mania 3 (except for one time), the silent treatment was enough to make the house be filled with tension. If looks could kill, each of us would’ve been a dead corpse by now.

We were only able to “publicly” fight when I accidentally sent my rant-SMS to her instead of my dad. And she was the sole topic of the SMS. I was playing son-in-distress, and she, the villain. But as she was part Annabelle Rama, she just craved for a confrontation, and I, on the other hand, feared going back home. And heck, that was one confrontation I’d like to have forgotten. As I am the quiet type, I seemingly lost in the fight.

But should I really go through all those that happened in the past? The Maala-Ala Mo Kaya Moments, the telenovella life we led. How I was Rubi – ang bidang kontrabida, and she was Amor Powers (How jologs of me to have all these comparison, forgive my analogy). But I’d refuse to live in the bitter past and even tell the tale in full detail. This isn’t the point really of this post.

I realize that as we were giving each other a hard time, we were both hurting.
As we were competing for my dad’s attention, we were both crying.
As we were at each other’s throats, we wished for peace.
As we were ignoring each other, we were both craving for the tiniest of acknowledgements.
And as we were trying to fulfil our roles in the family, we were both but human.
Capable of getting hurt. Wanting to belong. Wanting to be loved.

And though she fell short of the standards my relatives had set for my dad (yes they were pretty much involved), she never fell short in loving him. Through the hardships and hurt, she remained. At least now I know that my dad will grow old with someone by his side. Not exactly the one I’ve envisioned, but at least someone who’d love him just because. Because surely, others may have had my dad at his best, she simply had him at his worst, but loved him, nonetheless.

And thus now, I struggle to give her my hug of approval. I’ve planned this long before, but have not had the chance to execute. And though we are now in smiling (partial speaking) terms, we have not really raised white flags and signed a treaty of peace, officially. This usually is sealed with a hug. A simple hug that I am actually scared of, but would need to do… someday.

Because somehow, I know that she deserves it.

Because she is, after all, my madrasta.