Page 17 of Slightly Married
“Michail Athanasiou is lower than dirt,” Irida continued, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “A spineless coward who couldn’t even reject me to my face. A man who—” Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
My mother guided her back to the chair. “Enough, Irida. Think of your health.”
For a moment, the only sounds were Irida’s ragged breathing. I remained where I stood, stunned by the force of her outburst. While we had all known what had happened decades ago, I’d never seen my composed, dignified aunt lose control like this.
“You know he abandoned me,” she finally said, looking directly at me, her breathing still uneven. “But you don’t know everything.”
“What don’t we know, Theia?” I asked quietly, moving to sit across from her.
She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Aristides had provided. “It was arranged by our parents,” she began, her voice steadier now. “Michail and I had known each other for years because he was friends with your father and Stavros. I was pleased with the match. He was handsome, ambitious... I thought myself fortunate.”
My mother squeezed her hand encouragingly.
“We were to be married in the spring. A month before the wedding, he began expressing doubts.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “He suggested we... be together... to ensure our compatibility. He swore it would help convince him we could make a marriage work.”
I shifted uncomfortably, not accustomed to hearing such personal details from my aunt.
“I loved him,” she continued. “So I agreed. Then he left for America on business two weeks before our wedding.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “A week before our wedding, he called to say he had fallen in love with someone else and married her.”
Irida’s hands trembled as she smoothed her skirt. “I learned I was pregnant the same day he called.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was carrying his child while he was promising forever to someone else.”
The room fell utterly silent. Santo had moved closer, his earlier flippancy gone.
“I flew to New York,” Irida continued. “I thought surely if he knew about the baby, he would reconsider. But when I found him...” Her voice broke. “He told me he loved his new wife andwanted nothing to do with our marriage. He apologized, as if sorry could mend what he’d broken and taken from me.”
“And you never told him about Matthaios,” I said. We had all known this part of the story, that Michail remained ignorant of Matthaios’ existence.
She looked up at me. “After such humiliation? Never. My pride wouldn’t allow it.”
“Theia—” Aristides began, but she continued.
“He said he’d met his true love, and wouldn’t ever marry me.” Her voice hardened. “He threatened me when I called his wife a stripper. He wouldn’t allow me to tell him about Matthaios and turned his back on me.”
“I’m sorry, Theia,” I said finally. “I didn’t know how deeply he hurt you.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she replied, her composure returning. “You were children, and your father protected me from the worst of it. He insisted we cut off dealings with Michail for Matthaios’ sake.”
The image of my cousin in New York, working for the father who didn’t know he existed, took on new dimensions. His bitterness now seemed more justified.
“This arrangement is temporary,” I assured her. “Once the child is born and Thalassía is legally ours, Kayla will return to America.”
“And the child?” My mother asked softly. “Your child, Kostas. What then?”
Until now, the child had been a concept. But hearing my mother say it aloud made it real. This wouldn’t be a contract to dissolve. This would be a life.
I had no answer.
The practical details of our agreement suddenly felt insufficient. This wouldn’t be just any child, but a Christakis.My child. Born of an arrangement designed to heal one family wound while reopening another.
“I need to think,” I said, rising.
As I left the room, the competing obligations to my father’s memory, my aunt’s pain, and my unconceived child brewed a storm of conflict I had no idea how to navigate.
7
The fertility specialist had spent twenty minutes trying to convince me that ‘natural conception would increase our chances.’ As if I needed a man telling me what to do with my body.
I’d explained I was there to begin planning for artificial insemination right away since my single-mom-by-choice friends warned me about the lengthy process of tracking cycles and optimal timing. When I mentioned I’d never tried getting pregnant before, the doctor had the audacity to suggest I ‘give it the old-fashioned try’ with my husband first.
