Behind Every Man (COMPLETED)

Epilogue

Epilogue

Everyone was congratulating me.

I gave a small nod as it would be in poor taste for me to say thank you.

"When is daddy coming back?" Atticus asked.

I looked at him. He was dressed in all black. I remember him asking me why his dad was not replying to him when he talked to him while he was in the casket. I remembered him calling him daddy over and over again and then looking at me with his questioning eyes, wondering why his daddy's ignoring him. Because Archibald has never done that—when Atticus called for him, he always came running.

"Daddy is gone," I told him.

"Gone where?"

"Heaven," I said.

"Can I go to heaven, too?"

He looked a lot like him. They spent a lot of time together that he sometimes acted like him, too.

"No, you can't," I replied.

"Oh..." he said with a disappointed look on his face. "Why not?"

"You just can't," I said.

"When can I see him?"

"When you're older."

"How old?"

"When you're 30," I said.

He counted using his fingers. The crease on his forehead deepened as he came into realization as to how long he had to wait until he could see his father again.

I didn't know how to answer his question. I didn't want to always answer his questions. As soon as he's old enough, I'd send him to a boarding school abroad. It's better this way. He didn't have anyone here anymore—the only person who truly loved him and cared for him was gone. He'd just feel more alone here.

I left him to the care of his nanny. It was the 40th day following the death of Archibald. There was a dinner in the house. Typically, it was a gathering to commemorate the loss. It didn't feel like it. No one was really talking about him. His family has not said a word to me. My family never really cared about him.

Apart from the questioning public, it was only Atticus who kept on asking about what happened.

A lot has happened since then.

He was shot.

And then he fought for his life in the operating room.

He eventually lost.

People speculated.

Who killed him?

What was the motive?

Could it be Abby? Afterall, she already did it before. She's a cold-blooded murderer who shot down an entire plane. What's stopping her from doing it again? When it was obvious that her husband was losing the election?

What will happen to Archibald's candidacy?

And then, in the middle of grieving for my own husband, I announced that I would be stepping in, that I would continue to fight the good fight that my husband courageously fought for.

People love drama—craved for it.

They love the underdog, the victim.

And as they say—history is bound to repeat itself.

"I wish you were here to answer my questions," I said as I stood in front of Abuela's tomb. I couldn't stay for any more second in the house. I couldn't look at Atticus' face. I had to leave.

"I never got to ask you because I didn't really want to know," I continued as I read her name Victoriana Jimena de Marco-Gomez de Liaño. Abuela's always been a lot—even her name was a mouthful.

"I told myself that it probably was just that—a rumor... because how can you orchestrate the murder of your own husband?"

I felt the wind blowing against my skin even though the mausoleum was enclosed.

"But I was younger then... and life gets more complicated every day. I did things I never thought I was capable of—both good and bad," I continued as I lit up a candle. I placed it in front of her name.

"If I were being honest, I don't think happiness is for me, Abuela... I tried being happy. I really did. But it's hard. Happiness just doesn't come easy for me unlike for other people. It's a struggle."

I drew in a deep breath.

"I know no one will be able to understand what I did but you..." I said. "Are you proud of me, Abuela?" I asked.

She probably is.

Because her and I—we're cut from the same cloth.

We're the history that kept on repeating.

She was the woman behind the man, but I chose differently.

I became the man.