I had to go home early Monday morning despite an impending sickness. See, I had to pick up something important at home, but it turned out, we weren’t able to find it anyway, just a different copy. But while we were going through some of the documents, I went through my usual routine of looking at cabinets (to see if I have any clothes I can use, which always turn out to be none), and book shelves (to see if there are any books I would want to read back in Makati, which would usually end up with me thinking I don’t have a bag with me anyway, so wth). I found an old photo album which contained some interesting things (hahahahahaha—blackmail, here I come, you college schoolmate fools!), a plastic file case which contained printed school graduation photos of my brothers and I plus old college pictures (Paul—buhay pa yung pic na may dedication mo! Hahahahaha), and a really old watch which I used to adore so much except my dad didn’t want me to wear it because then he felt I was too reckless and would make it seem like wearing it is eye-catching to any potential stick-up men (that was then, now it just looks ancient). I seem to have a sentimental thing with watches, I’m not sure why.

While looking through drawers, I found a makeshift mother’s day card which was pretty much just white printer paper folded into two, with hearts drawn using squiggly lines and placed some stickers. I held it up gingerly and almost commented with disgust, “what is zis?”

My mum paused from shoving old documents inside an attaché case. “Oh. That’s from Chloe.” (for the un-oriented, Chloe happens to be my niece)

“I know. What is this.”

“It’s a card.”

“I know. I mean, what is this?” I flip through it with slight distaste. There’s a note written by my mum on the upper left part of the card—Mother’s day 2010, made by Chloe at age 5. “What the hell, mum. I used to create much more creative cards when I was five.”

My mum shrugs like hearing invectives from me about my niece is a common thing. You have to understand that no matter how much I love the little tyke, she’d still always be the new “baby”.

“And what, they’re paying 20k for her tuition? Maybe they should have placed her in Day Care. *I* turned out alright. And what, she may have an accent, but my English was way better when I was five.” I pause after realizing the slew of negatives I just threw out. I turn a different direction after ingesting this. “She does have a rather huge shoe to fill, doesn’t she?”

She doesn’t necessarily agree, but she points out something else. “Well, that’s why I like reading through your old works. I still have them over there in the drawer. You were rather adept with the language.”

We give up on the search and we troop towards the dining table. I eat on some fruits (what’s the English of Macopa?), and she tells me about how the kid kept wanting to spend time with her always, and I remember how I used to want that for the summer but for some reason, I never really got around to spending much time with my grandparents. She tells me she could call me up if Chloe were there, and I tell her that I have a landline number in Makati which she could call. I flick her phone open and key in the numbers when I noticed that my name was just two names apart from…well, the ex.

“Hey. You still have her number.” I tell her. She shrugs. “Does she still text?”

“She used to. But not so much anymore.”

“Well, last I heard she’s in Singapore.” I close the phone and toss it over to her. “Not that I know so much. I mean, we don’t talk. We’re…kind of not in a very good arrangement, if you know what I mean.”

She takes it in comfortably. “Well, now that you mentioned her, maybe you can change the greeting picture now?”

“What greeting picture?”

“On my phone. Every time I turn it on, it shows the picture of you two.”



It takes me about 5 minutes to process this.

“Huh?” I grab her phone—MY old phone which I gave her—and navigate towards the Settings. And there, confirmed one of my most embarrassing moments—the greeting was set to show a picture, which as my mum has pointed out, was “our picture.” Together. I think I paled right there.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?!”

She shrugs nonchalantly. I hate her arrogance. “I keep forgetting. I just remembered now because I want you to change it into a picture of Jesus and Mary. I don’t have a picture, though. Maybe you can take a picture of that and use it?” She points to a pen holder which has small pics of the two said patrons.

I just laugh at how embarrassing this really is, but at the same time, so amusingly comfortable. I only told my mum about her maybe 6 months ago? And my phone has been with her for about two years now. Imagine my mother shutting up to that and waiting for me to confirm things. *shakes head*

I still kind of think that telling my mother about me and my preferences was the worst idea I ever came up with. That was selfish. While mothers protect daughters from the world, daughters should simply protect back by ensuring that their mothers are in this sophisticated dreamed up idea that their daughters are okay, haven’t gone astray, and still the best there is. Shattering their illusions that we are in fact, deviant, is just plain cruel. But I was going through a tough time then, and I wanted her to understand. I wanted to connect. And in times like these, we just laugh at it like I simply made the biggest mistake ever and learned anyway. I think she has been taking her cue from me most of the time—like she displays affection for those I adore, and she shows annoyance for those I am angry with without me having to tell her. It’s a bond that she can’t escape, and neither can I, really.

I remember what she said when I opened it up—I won’t ever hate you for being my daughter. I would only be saddened if I would find out you’re not going after what you really want and what’s making you happy. And truthfully, thinking about it, apart from a few usual religious quotes, she never DID point out directly that what I did was wrong. She’s leaving it to subdued translations, but she was taking my cue on things like before.

I leave home and head back to Makati with a new interesting tale. Later in the afternoon, I receive an sms from her:

“From d time u left I started reading ur letters 2 ur Papa(it brought back memories – made me laugh a lot and cried) and was amazed that at age 8 u were already writing good English Sana u really get time 2 write because I know ur happy doing that. Do u still write? Masyado kasi kayong malihim. Buti nalang di ko pinatapon kay Papa mo yung mga letters mo at least meron akong binabalik-balikan. So proud of u baby!”

The last word does it in. Selfish or not, embarrassing or not, I’m still my mother’s baby. And they always do know what’s best for their babies, don’t they? Even if they end up knowing more than what you let on.