When I was twelve, my sister and I had to go before a judge and choose who we’d live with. My mother or my father. We went to Málaga, a nearby city, but before the appointment I asked my mother if we could stop at El Corte Inglés, a department store, to buy a gift. I had a feeling we needed to buy something for my father, or he’d rub it in our faces. He would always say: “When are you ever going to give me something? I’m not the Bank of Spain!” He only visited us every two weeks, so our needs would pile up.
We went into the store. I passed the cologne section. Yeah, maybe that was a good idea. Cologne was always a safe bet and he always liked Paco Rabanne. Still, there had to be something better.
We kept walking and got to the book section. I started looking. There had to be a book that suited him, a title that described him and would teach him a lesson when he read it. Classics. The Iliad. Doesn’t fit. History. None of the titles speak to me. I know he’s not even going to read it because he’s always in a hurry, so the title has to say it all.
“Come on Eze! It’s getting late,” my mother said. What if we go without a gift? No, something tells me I need to buy it. What if I can’t find anything? He’ll definitely rub it in our faces.
“Come on Eze, please!” my mother yelled. “We can’t be late.” I scanned the shelves one more time. Wait. I grabbed a book with a black cover. Clean and simple. I couldn’t believe it. The title was perfect.
We arrived late. The judge turned out to be a woman. Young and with a compassionate face. My father had been sitting there for a while and you could tell he’d been schmoozing to gain ground. I had the book inside my coat. I thought about giving it to him right there but I had a feeling there would be a better moment.
We sat down and the judge spoke in a pleasant tone. You could tell she didn’t want this to be traumatic for us. Some people are just good.
She explained she was going to ask us some questions and we’d have to tell her who we wanted to live with. It didn’t mean one parent was better, or that we’d never see the other again. The important thing was for us to tell her what we really thought. I guess some parents brainwash their kids to say they want to live with them. I never understood that. Fighting over the kids, not because you care about them but to screw your ex.
The judge asked my sister first. She could see she was young and talked to her like it was a game.
“Tell me, who do you want to live with? Your mother or your father?” My sister didn’t hesitate.
“With my mother,” she said. Of course. We always lived with her. When we visited him, we were always tense around his new wife’s family. We didn’t laugh or play and we always felt like we were being judged.
The judge asked me.
“With my mother,” I said. That’s it. Case closed. My father had lost and he hates losing. What do I do, give him the book now? You lost but here’s a consolation prize? No, not yet.
The judge started pulling out some papers. It looked like we were done. He had lost, and to my mother no less! But that wasn’t going to stand. He started going on about how he made an effort to give us everything. How he had to work so hard and drive to see us on weekends and take us to the movies. Really? He was going to pull that? Do I take out the book and shut him up now? He kept going.
“And you two,” he said. “All you do is ask and ask. Every time I pick you up, all you do is ask me for things. I’m always giving but you never give me anything. Tell me, when was the last time you bought me a gift? Huh? When!”
Now. I pulled the book out of my pocket and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Nothing, a gift for you.”
He looked at the cover and read the title: “I, the Supreme.”
The judge was holding back laughter.
“Damn,” she said.
My father looked like he’d just made a complete fool of himself. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t make any more complaints so the judge stamped some papers and two minutes later we were out.
“I, the Supreme.” I found the perfect book.
