The twisted course of events became even worse as Manuel became increasingly upset with me because now, I was becoming daddy’s darling. I had been mommy’s darling, he had been daddy’s darling, and now I was to become both. He knew that I hadn’t wanted to visit dad. He knew of this wrongness. However, I was too young to know how to behave maturely and thus let dad believe that his assumption was correct. I guess that was the first crack in the foundation of Manuel’s and my relationship – and it wasn’t to remain the only one.

Anyway, mom and dad were divorced. With that marriage, she had her serving of men and was not willing to go in for another one. There was no man in her life, and certainly not at our house. Guest, friends, visitors, yes, but never any ‘man.’ There wasn’t much touching, kissing, or hugging either. My mom is Colombian, and you might think that kissing and hugging are just rooted in the Latina ladies. Well, not so much with my mom. Of course, we cuddled and hugged each other every now and then, but physical contact was somewhat rare at home. We bonded more on intellectual and spiritual levels, shared experiences, hopes, fears, dreams, anything – but physically, we were at a distance.

I remember watching a film where a man and a woman French kissed. I was very young then. Just after the kissing scene, mom had said something like, “Yak! Never let him stick his tongue into your mouth. That’s so disgusting!”. I was clueless about why anybody would want to stick one’s tongue into another person’s mouth, but it stuck to my mind like gum to a shoe that sticking one’s tongue into someone else’s mouth or having a tongue stuck into one’s own mouth was a – Yak! – disgusting thing. Because mom knew about a lot of things, I did not question why she shouldn’t know about this.

When I was 11 or 12 years old, Manuel had returned from his year abroad as a high school exchange student. While he had been gone, his room had been mine. His room was fantastic; it even had its own TV. His room became my private kingdom after having shared my room with mom all those years that we had been living without dad. I loved watching MTV, and I had gotten used to a new routine: Showering in the late afternoons, rushing off to my kingdom, and finishing my beauty rituals while dancing around in underwear, singing, watching, and listening to music videos. My room was my haven. When Manuel had returned from his year abroad, I had to go back to my old one, back to sharing. Mom was basically just in there for sleeping, so it was ‘mine,’ but simply because there were two beds, a large wardrobe, and a writing desk, there wasn’t much room at all. Back then, I had a high bed, one I had been whining about tenaciously, for mom to finally give in and get me one. I loved sleeping in a high bed, but I loved even more the fact that a high bed meant that there was space beneath, which I could use as a little hiding place. It was fantastic – it was my secret hiding place. Nobody could see me there, and nobody could see me there reading Bravo.