How I got here, in the Oval Office, I do not really know. Sometimes I am afraid to be in this historic room, at this historic desk, feeling like an impostor, yet someone who loves this country more than many of its duly elected occupants did. They call me “President,” serve me elegant meals on precious china with the presidential seal, and usher in visitors who look awed to be in my presence. But admittedly, I see fewer and fewer visitors these days. There is almost no one I need to placate, to flatter or bargain with, which means I am not a politician, not anymore.
Most foreign presidents refuse to visit, citing something called “democracy.” But they fool themselves. The man my loyal generals evicted was a criminal and a rabblerouser. To paraphrase an old saying from my youth, “You use that word, but I do not think you know what it means.”
My aides bring me communications that require my signature, but they know me so well, and they know the needs of the country so well, that I need do little hard work. There is even time to garden. You should see my roses this year.
They are such pleasant, nice-looking young people, eager to please, not obviously ambitious. Partly I hold onto power so that my enemies will not punish them once they sideline me.
I spend many hours alone, preferring the small study off the Oval Office, or in good weather, the portico. My aides set up two small tables around a high-backed chair that helps with the backache and I read our newspapers, and sometimes, if I am up for the vitriol, foreign press. Sometimes I answer private correspondence on the laptop from supporters, worldwide.
The papers call me a tyrant, but really, I do almost nothing tyrannical these days. The harsh measures were taken in the days and weeks after the generals installed me in office. Nowadays acts against would-be insurrectionists and traitors are carried out under my signature without my having signed the documents. Autopen, you know. Sometimes, I think to myself, am I a tyrant if I am not personally authorizing the sentences, the executions, the jailings? If I disappeared tomorrow, they would continue. But this is a discussion for philosophers, not politicians.
I would gladly leave this place, if only my daughter would come back to me. And in the dark of my bedroom, I know I cannot leave, because then my enemies would capture and execute me. So I am trapped, as much as any of those shabby Marxists in hiding. When we find them, we blow them to smithereens.
My fondest memory is taking Adriana to the park when she was six and she rode the carousel five times wearing a beautiful print dress in bold colors—too bold for a child, it was a sophisticated dress—white socks and black Mary Janes. We were so happy. Her father, my husband, was still alive. Later she came to me with her school assignments and then prom dates. We took road trips, at least to areas that were still safe.
“I love you, Mom,” each birthday and Mother’s Day card promised. “You are the best mom,” she would scrawl underneath the verse. Long rows of xxxxx always followed.
When did we begin to grow apart? I was writing articles and giving speeches for liberty, for the people. She went to college and came home each holiday bristling, ready to spar. I was arguing that those who sought to destroy the country should be held in preventive detention. Then, among my friends, I started to say, “they should be neutralized.” One moves quickly from voicing the unthinkable to authorizing it. My husband was assassinated on his way to teach a biology class at Georgetown. We were naïve to think I was the only target.
They came to me, saying “the country needs you.” What if I had said “no, I support your cause, but it cannot be me who rules. I am just a professor”? Too late. In the rush of the emergency, not thinking clearly, I said yes. And yet most of the country seems satisfied. Prices are not high, jobs are plentiful, laws are enforced. No one misses the homeless encampments. We have a Congress that is far less silly than the one it replaced. The news media is free to write a lot. If they identify a problem the government can fix, they are welcome to expose it.
She brought my then infant grandson, Alejandro, to the White House, in those first heady weeks when they all condescendingly—puffed up with their pretensions—thought I would surrender and return the government to the dangerous activists who had brought us to this pass. I should have paid more heed to the thin, nervous twitch that passed for her smile. I must have attributed it to a new mother’s anxiety. And then…nothing more despite all the calls and cards, except for one photo of my grandson that came recently from a distant cousin in Massachusetts that I had blown up and placed on the sideboard. I have not seen or heard from Adriana since. Resistance media in Canada says she has rejected me for betraying our country. Very well.
It is lonely here. But I might well have been lonely on the outside, a widow with a daughter living far away. There are many such.
So it was not surprising that I became friends with the new assistant butler. He was a short, dark-complexioned man in his mid-fifties, crisp in the household livery.
“Madam President, I have taken the liberty of bringing you a hot toddy drink,” he said one winter evening, between Christmas Day and Patriots Day, which falls on January 6th. “You look chilled and this is an excellent drink for warding off covid and flu that is so common at this time of year. It contains whiskey and lemon, but not too much whiskey or lemon.”
I was grateful for the small kindness. Everyone is so polite and correct, even obsequious, but never kind. Perhaps they think I am not in need of kindness, that I am invulnerable.
“Thank you,” I said. And something impelled me to add, “Please tell me your name.”
By the time I finally felt tired enough to go to bed, Rafael had told me his life story, how he had come to Washington thirty years ago from the Philippines, served in the Navy, and that is how he eventually landed in the White House mess. He had served five presidents so far, including me. “My son lives in Seattle. My daughter is here in Washington. I have four grandchildren, all hers. We get together every Sunday when I am not at work and sometimes I watch them on weekdays if I am off then.”
“That is very fine,” I said wistfully, “to see your grandchildren.”
He read my face, sympathy flitting across his. “I should not have mentioned my joy,” he said, “since you are deprived of your daughter and grandchild. It is a great sacrifice you have made for our country.”
Rafael came to me on Saturday evening a few weeks later. His face was alight. He made sure none of the other staff were around. On weekends it was usually very quiet.
“Madam President, I saw your grandson at the playground this morning, in Columbia Heights. He was with his nanny.”
“How can you be sure it was him?”
Rafael pointed to the framed photograph on the sideboard. “Madam, he looked exactly like this boy. And the nanny called him ‘Alex.’”
That was good enough for me, almost as good as seeing him myself.
“I sat near the nanny, and she mentioned your daughter’s family name on the phone. She said they were going to move soon, out of the country.”
I sighed, thinking of Alejandro so close, only about two miles away, but so far. And now they were going to disappear, who knew where?
“Madam President, what if I brought you to that playground next Saturday morning? They come almost every day at that time. I didn’t realize until today that it is your grandson.”
“How am I supposed to escape this place?” I said irritably, flinging my arm towards the window. Outside there were Secret Service agents, but they rarely came to the personal quarters.
“I can show you how to leave the building. You can wear a disguise. We have tunnels you have never entered. It will take you to the employee parking lot and you can hide in the back seat. If you close your bedroom door and put a sign on it that you are unwell, no one will disturb you all day.”
Rafael was right. Early that Saturday morning, he brought me a waitress uniform and a blonde wig. With sunglasses and a humble persona, nobody would take me for a president. And the White House was deserted on weekends, with my aides picnicking and playing volleyball with friends, and my cabinet at their summer homes with their families. So as the gate opened to let Rafael’s car out of the presidential grounds, my heart surged with joy and freedom. It was a beautiful afternoon, not sweltering like many Washington summer days, with a very faint breeze and the trees heavily laden with their richly green leaves.
We parked several blocks from the park, and it was exciting not to be recognized. I had pulled a light sweater over the starched waitress shirt so I did not stand out. Rafael and I sat on the bench together facing the playground. A casual observer might have thought us neighbors, but we did not sit close enough to be husband and wife. I shifted impatiently for a few minutes, and then gasped, “Look, there he is!”
Alejandro pedaled furiously on a tiny tricycle, his nanny barely keeping up. She took the tricycle and brought it back to the bench as he made a run for the playground equipment. I imagined her to be one of my son-in-law’s students at Georgetown in the government studies program—she looked more elegant than the usual squat women who occupied the benches in lieu of parents.
How I wanted to hug him!
Rafael turned to me, his face full of concern. “Perhaps it was a mistake to come here? You see him, but you cannot do more.”
I reached into my late spring jacket pocket and brought out a small jumping ball, the type that will crash against the ceiling if you slam it against the floor first. I had brought it on the off chance I could make a connection. I threw it in Alex’s direction as he was running back to the nanny’s bench for a snack. He stopped short, regarded the ball with delight, and scampered after it.
“Give it back to the lady,” the nanny ordered.
Alex trotted back to me with the ball and shyly handed it back to me, his deep brown eyes barely grazing mine. I think he resembled my husband—it was hard to tell.
“Thank you, dear,” I said. “Would you like to play catch some more?”
So for a few minutes, the nanny allowed us to toss the ball back and forth. I sat on the bench, and Alex retrieved it each time. The nanny made no objection—I was making her life easier and Rafael and I were clearly not predators. I kept calling out “Good catch!” and “you’re doing great!”
I attempted some conversation. “How old are you?”
“Almost four!” he said.
“Can I give him a snack?” I asked the nanny. How I longed to ply my grandson with fresh-baked cookies from my oven!
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “His parents are very strict with his diet.” That was exactly what I would have expected from my vegan daughter. So yes, more proof this was my grandson.
Rafael and I kept returning to the park, and each time Alex would run over to me and say hello and show me a new toy or a new gymnastic move on the jungle gym. My heart was filled with love and warmth for him. I thanked God and Rafael for making this possible. To make Alex know me better, I would even dare take off the sunglasses when he was in my immediate vicinity. A grandmother should not place a barrier between herself and her grandson.
If my staff wondered why I had migraines every Saturday, they did not ask. They did not offer to alert the White House physician. I sometimes wondered why Adriana or her husband never came to the park with Alex on a weekend. When I mentioned that to Rafael, he said he had overheard the nanny say that Mrs. Feldman—my Adriana—was working on Saturdays for the NGO that was staying one step ahead of my FBI. She had meetings on weekends, supposedly. That seemed a bit strange—what NGO works outside of banking hours? Their employees spend more time in coffee shops or in each other’s beds than at workscreens. But since I would not have been able to escape the White House on weekdays, I accepted this explanation readily.
One Saturday I really did have a migraine. “I don’t think I can go today, Rafael.”
He seemed distressed. “Alex will be so disappointed, Madam President.”
“Yes, I am sure, but one week will not make a difference.”
“I think they are moving out of the country in two weeks,” he warned me. I decided I would ask my Homeland Security secretary to see whether they could figure out where Adriana and Alex were moving, or prevent them from doing so. If Adriana and her husband were arrested, would that mean I could have custody of Alex? And then he could move into the White House with me and we would be together all the time. I have lots of spare time these days. We would put a playhouse on the lawn. There are advantages to being a tyrant.
“Next weekend, then,” I said, shading my eyes from the pulsing lights that were making me nauseous. I had not had such a headache in many years, since before my change of life.
Rafael turned on his heel and exited the room, with what looked like a touch of impatience. He had always been deferential before. Perhaps I had caused him to change his personal schedule and created inconvenience for him. But I was too unwell to care. And after all, I am the President.
The following Friday morning, he said to me, “this will be your last chance to see your grandson, Madam President. They are moving to Canada on Wednesday. They will cross the border as if they are going on vacation. This is what the nanny told me.”
My Homeland Security secretary had told me that there were no airline reservations for any member of my family in their system. But he would not have known about any plans to cross the border by private vehicle. Nor did FBI have any information on their plans. I could have ordered the secretary to ensure they did not cross, but really, would it have made a difference? They would find another way. I could not force Adriana to come to me here or there.
Rafael and I exited the White House through the tunnel as we had done the previous dozen times.
Outside, the season was beginning to change. It was late September, and while the trees were still leafy, they were not so exuberantly green. A cool breeze was a harbinger of fall to come. Some of the children were wearing sweatshirts or jackets. A glorious sunshine at a sharper, autumnal angle baked us all in light. We sat ourselves on the nearest bench to where he played on the jungle gym. He ran over to me and gave me a hug. “Hi, Ms. Lydia!” Eventually I had taken a chance by giving him my name, but of course it was not my real name. What if he had said something at home about the nice older lady in the park who watched him play?
I handed him a small metal car. It was a blue convertible and had once belonged to Adriana’s brother, before he died of leukemia, just before she was born. If Adriana saw it, she might recognize it, since it had remained on a shelf of treasured toys in her brother’s room, which I kept as a shrine until we moved years later. When she was safely in Canada, it might suddenly remind her that she still had a family, a mother, longing for her.
“I hope that is all right,” I called out to the nanny two benches away.
She nodded, somewhat distantly, I thought.
Rafael said to me, “I am going to buy a refreshment, Madam. Can I bring you anything?”
“No, thank you,” I said. It was not uncommon for Rafael to leave for a few minutes to find a restroom or a snack or stretch his legs. I did not need a minder. I sipped on the water canister that I always brought with me to the park. A touch of lemon was all I needed.
I began to feel drowsy in the warm sunlight. At some point I must have dozed off. I woke to find myself alone. The nanny was at the other end of the park with Alex—he must have pedaled the tricycle all the way to the other end. I watched a little green blur that was him. I was confident they would return, at least one last time. Rafael had not yet returned from his errand. I was alone in this corner of the park.
My husband’s face rose up before me. This was not just me remembering him. It was a godly vision. The wound along the right side of his face that I had seen in the morgue was there. A bullet had entered in that spot. He looked drawn and haunted. He said nothing, just stared at me with his dark hooded eyes.
“What?” I asked him.
“Come to me,” he said.
And then I heard a brief hiss and all was darkness. The world was silent and completely still for a micro-second. Tiny sharp projectiles pelted my whole body, like a million vicious pinpricks. Pain ripped through my abdomen, my limbs, and my head, for a split second or two, worse than any migraine. I felt myself rising into the air, part of a swirl of metal, and wood, and gases and smoke. The air smelled of sulphur, as if I was visiting Masaya volcano again, as when I was a girl. But I did not fall down again. From above I saw my crumpled body in a waitress uniform torn to shreds, debris scattered around it all the way to the jungle gym. A red smashed leg lay about ten feet to the left of my body, and a burned arm about ten feet to the right. Are those mine? Yes, those are mine.
They all fooled you. The entire plot unfolded before me in a final second before it disappeared forever: the photo that was not actually of Alex, or from a cousin; the drugged water canister that allowed them to leave me sleeping on the bench; the failure of the Secret Service to discover my weekend excursions. The boy had not been my grandson, but he had looked, just a little, like my dead son. It had all been too easy for my enemies to sneak into my lonely life and take advantage of me.
Now I heard the sirens. They would come and take me away and bury me properly. I turned and embraced my husband, and my son, who would always be ten years old. The authorities would wreak revenge on my killers, but it did not interest me. I would wait for Adriana to join us and then we would all understand each other. I do not think the dead hold grudges.
Paula T. Weiss is the author of The Antifan Girlfriend (2020) and The Deplorable Underground (2023). This story is from The 2025 Journal of The Virginia Writers Club, which can be purchased on Amazon.com. Paula Weiss is the nonfiction editor of the Journal.