The Mistletoe

Chapter I

It was a tranquil night, the moonlight illuminated the nighttime sky. The wood of the house creaked, and the wind blew gently, swaying the trees around us while I scrolled through videos and read messages from my friends posted on their photos. Seated near the fire in the fireplace, my father was reading a book and taking some notes in a notebook; I never liked books.

"What are you reading, Dad?" I asked.

"The Iliad, by Homer. I have to prepare something for tomorrow's class; we'll be discussing mythology and Greek history. You should read a book, son. You spend all your time on your smartphone and hardly go out, like you used to."

My father, Clemente, was a very straightforward man; our house was simple, containing only what was necessary, and everything had a purpose, either for utility or learning. A globe, a map of ancient Rome hung on the wall, shelves filled with books, mostly history, some literature, and others on philosophy.

My father always had a serene look and rarely got angry about anything. He often said to me, "You can't change what happens, but you can control how you react to it." He never used social media; he only used email and what was needed for his classes. For him, technology was a means of learning and a tool for teaching.

He taught at a rural high school several kilometers away from where we lived, in Llanquihue, a town in southern Chile. How would I describe my father? Hmm...

His hair was curly and short, he had a thick black beard, and dark brown eyes. He was short for the average Chilean, and slim, but his belly had grown, so I used to tease him, saying he looked pregnant or comparing him to a spider. Yes, sometimes I went too far with my jokes, but he would do the same, calling me a zombie or a little demon, referencing Bart and Homer from The Simpsons. His face always reminded me of those busts of Greek philosophers, you know? I truly admired how he could be so patient and calm, which tempted me to tease him even more.

And why do you think he called me a zombie? Well, let's just say I had a certain co-dependency, according to him, on technology. When I wasn't looking at memes or playing on my smartphone, I'd sit with my friends to play games online. My favorite games were always war-based or shooters; if not those, then first-person games.

When I was younger, my father tried to buy me books and read to me at night, but as I grew older, our relationship became strained. You see, my story isn't the conventional story of an average 20-year-old South American.

It all started when I was young. My parents met right here. My father, very young at the time, encountered my mother in the middle of a forest, she was a bit dizzy and in bad shape. He told me she had no injuries, just dizziness and nausea; he took her as a lost tourist and went to help her. My mother was amazed by his calmness and simple altruism.

My mother, named Hilda, was a radiant and beautiful woman. I remember her straight and golden hair in a braid, shining like the sun, and her piercing neon-blue eyes. She was tall, very tall and athletic, a stark contrast to my father. My father's mother used to say she looked like a fallen angel from heaven, and she was very proud to see them together. My grandmother said that her mere presence made people stare, mesmerized by her beauty; this made my father uncomfortable, but his character helped him cope with it calmly.

The strange thing was that she never talked about her life, and my father didn't ask her much either. If she didn't want to share, he simply, given his character, didn't insist, which drove my grandmother crazy. She bombarded my mother with questions about her family, nationality, and curiosity to get to know them.

My mother always spoke perfect but neutral Spanish, and it seemed like she knew many languages, although she didn't boast about it much. My grandmother recounted that my mother wanted to have a home birth. Both the midwife and my grandmother were amazed by my mother's strength and recovery. My mother chose my name; she called me Miguel, like the archangel.