Oscar The First

Growing up in a wealthy family isn't easy. There is a strong expectation, from the moment you're born, to become a replica of those who surround you, which might be cute for some, but it was always my worst nightmare.

I was the first son. My arrival was planned and strategized, just like everything around our household. Surprise family members would not have helped my parents' careers, so I arrived shortly after my mother got a promotion and my father opened his architecture studio. I spent a lot of time with a nanny who took over the care of me and, two years later, of my sister as well. That new baby girl immediately stole whatever spotlight I could have had. I was too young to remember what it was like before her, but I want to imagine that I wasn't always like "this" to my parents. It comforts me. They always told me they loved me, and they paid for my classes, toys, and clothes; I never missed out on anything material. I just missed them, even when we had dinner together at the massive table in the dining room.

I studied architecture because my father is an architect. The other option was to become a lawyer, like my mother, but I found it easier to look at tall buildings than to bury my nose in the same books I had seen in her office, where I spent so much time waiting for her meetings to end so we could go home. My father seemed happier. His workdays were long, too, but he enjoyed his life more than she did.

He smiled, she didn't.

I attended the same university my father did, just like Elisa did.

I have known Elisa since we were little. She had always been in my class. People said we were cute together, though I never understood why. When we grew up, they said we would be a power couple, but that seemed idiotic to me, because she didn't even talk to me unless our parents were around.

It was only in the last year, when my parents organized a dinner with her family, that something changed. The grown-ups were speaking about holiday houses, projects, and customers, and she moved her hand under the table, landing on my leg first and making me gasp a few minutes later. It was as if something had possessed her, and I had become prey. After that dinner, from which I had to sneak out to my bedroom with a napkin hiding the evidence of an unexpected dessert, it took her less than a week to tie an invisible knot around my neck. Less than a year later, we were engaged.

I proposed to her in a fancy restaurant in London, where she was working in a famous architecture company. Her parents had pulled some strings so their daughter had the best start in her career, and I joined my father's business. Both of us did whatever our parents wanted, but I was sure she was enjoying herself more than I did. The proof was that, after six months, she was working on an incredible project, while I had quit and applied for a teaching vacancy in a local high school. While she was defining new trends in construction, I was spending my time with teenagers who were more interested in memes than in my Technical drawing lessons.

It was no surprise for anybody. I wasn't happy living under my parents' shadow, discovering the kind of person my father was at work, away from my mother. He wasn't a teddy bear at home, but in his environment, he was a tyrant who stopped talking to me for weeks after I handed in my resignation letter. I'm sure he only stopped such behavior, the silent treatment, because my mother convinced him to do so. Shortly after, I moved into another apartment they had, the one that had belonged to my grandparents, and rented out the three spare rooms to earn some extra income. Teaching was less stressful than working with my father breathing down my neck, but it didn't pay as well.

So, there I was, in my early twenties, living with three other colleagues, with some money in my account, and engaged to someone who expected me to give her what she had always had. After all, we both came from good families, from good money. Asking for something different, for less, was never an option.

On the proposal day, I was nervous. I had told Ernesto, one of my flatmates, the details of my plan, but instead of congratulating me, he asked me if I was sure about it.

As if I had another option.

My parents wanted me to settle down. Elisa wanted a husband. I wanted something else, and I convinced myself that she was it: following the steps of every single person around me-- those who counted, as my father used to say.

The wedding preparations started as soon as I slid the ring on her finger, the ring that turned out to have the wrong color and a too-small stone, the one we had to return to the store the very next day to pick up something more "appropriate" to our status. Little did I know that she had already selected a venue, a menu, her dress, and a tux for me months before. She was not anxious or worried about me not loving her, but was concerned about her parents losing the deposits. The wedding was planned for three months later, as I discovered when I saw the invites she had already prepared.

Her parents asked my parents to cover half of the party's cost. Elisa taught me how to groom, dress, and behave in the following months, even though we would be living apart until the wedding day. She even organized my bachelor party and made sure my flatmates did not attend. They don't match our standards, she said. Luckily, my friends did not care about her plans or opinions, so they organized a second bachelor party the day before the wedding.

The only thing I asked the guys was to avoid strippers and minimize the amount of alcohol, but, of course, my opinion did not matter, not even to me. The steaks arrived, along with the bottles of wine. After a couple of hours, while some of them waved at the women covered in glitter, I felt the world spinning below my feet.

"Ernesto, you have to help me," I told my flatmate. The poor thing thought I needed to throw up and rushed to take me out of the bar, but I stopped her on the way.

"I cannot get married tomorrow. I don't love her. My parents do. She doesn't love me; she adores my parents' money. I can't..."

"Oscar, man, calm down, this is the wine talking..."

"It's not the wine! I can't do it! I'll become one of them, I'll be trapped forever..."

"Or you'll divorce..."

"You're supposed to be my friend! I yelled, as our other mates giggled like little kids in front of two women way older than them.

Ernesto took a deep breath, and I saw his posture change, which somehow helped me to say what I needed to say.

"Stop the wedding. Tell the priest, when he asks if anyone opposes, that I can't marry her."

"Are you crazy? You want to wait until the ceremony?"

"She wants a wedding..."

"Yes, sure, but no one wants that, to be left at the altar."

"Ernesto, it doesn't matter anymore, everything is broken, nothing matters anymore!" I yelled.

"Are you sure this is not the wine talking?" he replied. He was worried and looked around as if anyone around us, in that dark place, could help him.

"You tell him you're in love with me! She won't like it."

"Me neither, I'm not gay!"

"That doesn't matter. It has to be something bad for her, something she believes she can't fix."

"Man, I don't know if you're the face of desperation or pure evil."

"Who cares? I've always done whatever I was told. I became one of them. Spoiled. I need to get out."

"From here?" replied Ernesto, grabbing my arm.

I shook him off.

"Let's get ready for a wedding!" I shouted out, laughing hysterically.

That's how it started, the rest of my life.