In the twelve years that I have been alive, I have never seen a man with such boldness and slyness as him. His broad shoulders and strong jawline are perfect enough to faze any sane woman. But I am not sane. I am smart. I can look past his charming smile and through his sweet talk, but Mother cannot.
If only.


When I first saw him, I knew something was different, for he and his crisp shirt and slick hair stuck out like a neon sign on the weathered soil he glided upon. I watched him, from the window above, consult with my weary mother. He seemed nice enough, smiling when he felt was appropriate and touching Mother’s shoulder when the tears dampened her hollow face. It was not until Mother was too caught up in her own muddled emotions did I realize that the man wasn’t here to give his share of sorrow. As the broken widow in front of him sobbed, the man smirked, observing the crippled yet abundant land around him. I could see him hold his breath as he turned his head to admire the farm.


Our farm was famous in this part of the country. Two years ago, my family was known as the “The Greens Thumbs”. Our neighbors called us “The Greenies” for short. Our grass was the greenest and our pigs were the fattest. We had Mother to thank for that. She wouldn’t give any mercy to the bloated stomachs of the squealing pigs and kept stuffing what couldn’t be stuffed anymore. But that was back then. I didn’t take any indignation of this ironic play on words. We were all farmers here. I thought it was kind of nice to be apart of something lighthearted.


If only it was the same.
His eyes were so blue and yet so deceiving. He would come around each Thursday to check up on us. He stayed to fix a door hinge or nail up our roof when it leaked. Sometimes he would come into the stable where I spent most of my time grooming Marmalade.
“Marmalade. Huh. What a sweet name.” He would joke, trying to get me to like him. In return I wouldn’t say a thing.
Marmalade had been my best companion ever since I could lift myself onto a saddle. We had matching brown hair and eyes, and Mother used to call us twins. Who was this man, trying to sneak into our bond?
If only he took the hint.
He told me that he was here to help us through this rough time in life, but I knew better than to trust a stranger who wore dress shoes everywhere he went. Weekly visits turned into daily ones, and soon the man turned into my new father.
The wedding was a big one. I’d never seen my home filled with so many people. There were bedazzled mannequin-like ladies wearing too much makeup. Their cheap, artificial smells made me gag. Penguin-looking men and their stiff worn out tuxes restricted their ability to move. Riley from school and her mom even came wearing their best Sunday attire, not that they ever attended church. I had never seen a wedding like this in this town where people dressed so distastefully.
Mother even tried to put me in a pink puff ball contraption with enough glitter and sparkle to cover Antarctica. She said that it was the finest dress in town, with its handsewn lace bordering and soft-like-silk material. Boy was I stubborn. I told her that I couldn’t have given one bucket of geese crap if the dress was well made or if he had bought it for me. But, I finally gave in after her relentless pleas. It was very unfortunate to discover that the dress accidently got into Marmalade’s stable, and she just might have clomped her heels all over the pricy garment. That’s my girl.
The man talked with a strange sophistication. His vocabulary exceeded what I could comprehend. I was so befuddled with his choice of words that I borrowed Mr. Old Sam’s dictionary in desperation of understanding he and Mother’s conversations while I eavesdropped. I noticed that his flourished speech was able to convince Mother to get more “sumptuous” things. He would point to a door that my papa had put up himself and say that it was, “repulsive”. The next week he’d tear the wood off the frame and install another, one with engravings and an embroidered placemat to go with it.
Along with one replacement came a shiny new gift waiting for me. I guess the man tried to make things right by giving me other things to cope for my loss. When he ripped out my handmade curtains, he tried to take me out for a double scooped chocolate sundae with three cherries on top, my all-time favorite. Or when I walked into my modernized room, he bought a new brush for Marmalade.
If only he wasn’t trying so hard.
It turned out that this man wasn’t as affluent as everyone claimed him to be.
At first the rebuilding started off small, switching out a few chairs with new ones, but it eased into a whole reconstruction of our home and our life. Before we knew it, our life savings had been reduced to a single dime.
If only they had listened.
Mother was forced to sell her antiques. Quilted blankets from Granny were packaged and sold. Mother’s old wedding ring and discolored jewelry were tossed for money. Her eyes pleaded with the man to save her 1960 lavender lamp, but he just stood there, biting his lip. My Marmalade was torn from my arms and taken to another ranch for a mere $99. To win me over, the man stepped in and bought Marmalade back for me. I knew what he was trying to do.
If only I fought harder.
Mother was blinded by every feature of this urban man. No matter how hard I tried to tell her that he was a cheat, an illusion, she could not let go the comfort of having a male figure in the house. Papa’s existence was replaced by this monster. How could she forget him like that? Papa deserved more.
If only he was still alive.