Prologue: Tradition

All families have a tradition. Sometimes it goes all the way back to their ancestors in the eighteenth century. Some families only started one in the twentieth century.

I don’t know when my family tradition started. But one thing is for sure: This tradition doesn’t make a single bit of sense.

But one cannot choose the family he or she will belong to. And you cannot choose which family traditions you will end up honoring in your life.

My family has close ties. While some people can sit together at parties not even knowing they are related, I had to know each and every one of my cousins, aunts, and uncles. We have family reunions about twice a year. In between those reunions, my family engages in gossip about each other. They have the chance to confirm that gossip during the reunions.

They especially focus on the women in our family who are approaching the age of thirty. Because it means, they are almost at the finish line.

According to my family tradition, we have a curse. If one of our women is not married at the age of thirty, she is doomed to be single for life.

I thought this was complete bull. But I’ve got Aunt Rosalie, who sits at family reunions alone. She had her heart broken when she was thirty. The guy left her at the altar. Ten years later, she’s still single with no hopes of ever marching down the aisle.

We also have Aunt Mildy. Full of love, this one. So full of love, she passed from lover to lover and none of them ever wanted to put a ring on her finger. Now, rumor has it, she’s the mistress of a rich Sultan, who comes to see her once every two months. She lives a luxurious life, though. But she’s still a mistress in the eyes of her family.

There was also Theresa; she was one of my older cousins. Pretty and successful. But it was her choice to be single. She’s a lesbian and has no desire to be married to a man. So, I guess that was not really the workings of a curse.

One of our older aunts got married at thirty-two, giving the women in our family hope that the curse was just the lore our ancestors passed down to ensure the elders would always have grandchildren to dote on. But a week after she got married, her husband died. And she has remained a widow since then.

There are many stories of aunts and cousins who disregarded the tradition. I don’t know whether it was just coincidence, but somehow, they are in the family’s Hall of Shame—the unwritten list of women in our family who had tragedy or bad luck fall upon them because they disregarded this myth.

And so, ever since I was young, I have been a hopeless romantic. I read all sorts of fairy tales and love stories, hoping someday one of those love stories would come true for me. That my knight in shining armor would come to rescue me, sweep me off my feet, and rush me to the altar. I intend to marry at the age of thirty, at least one year earlier so I’m sure I’m saved.

Apart from the fear of living my life alone, childless, or husband-less, I refuse to be the subject of my family’s conversation and gossip at the reunion table. I hate it whenever the table is all abuzz and then suddenly falls silent when Aunt Rosalie or Aunt Mildy join in, and every single person at the table picks a different topic to talk about off the top of their heads.

By hook or by crook, I vowed: I would be married before the deadline! It would be a plus if my prince were handsome and capable of giving me the life I deserved. But I guess compared to the chitchat and the impending curse that would be bestowed upon me, I would much rather marry an ogre.

I have years to complete my quest. Two decades to plan my “forever” is a lot of time.