(TW: Brief descriptions of parental abuse)
It’s been a while since I’ve seen Mamang and Papang, since leaving for college and greener pastures in the city.
After some relentless push from my mother who lived overseas, I reluctantly agreed and packed my bags bound for the province where they’ve been their entire lives, yet a place I never exactly considered home.
Growing up, I’ve always envied my peers who were particularly close with their grandparents. Often, I wondered what was wrong with myself as my own never really favored me.
With bags in hand, I stood in front of the house where I left many things behind. The sweat trickled down my forehead from the sweltering midday heat. From a distance, I could tell that the facade has not changed since I left six years ago—I could still remember the dread pulsing through my body. Even now, at twenty-four, I could faintly feel it.
Slightly shaking, I put down my bags after knocking, before being greeted by my Papang, his face already aged and his hair slightly gray. I couldn’t tell if he was delighted to see me based on his expression.
“So nice to see you again, apo! Come in, your Mamang is cooking your favorite food at the back. Come!” Papang eagerly said, taking my things despite his growing arthritis on his knuckles. I then stepped into the house, waves of nostalgia hitting me with every turn.
I was a little wary though, whether I should welcome that feeling as I continued to walk through the sala.
“Mamang! Our apo is here!”
Mamang appeared out of the kitchen, an oddly warming smile on her. She pulled me into an embrace. “How are you, apo? It’s been so long!”
“Good po, Mamang. I’m doing quite well.” I blandly replied, unsure of how to answer.
She nodded and chuckled.
“Come! Traveling here must have made you really hungry. I’ve cooked your favorite tinola!”
A moment later, we were seated around the old wooden table, chatting and eating. Mamang shared stories while Papang and I ate, listening and occasionally talking. Although I did find Mamang’s gossip on local townsfolk amusing, I couldn’t help but sense a painful ache in my chest.
I was a little girl then, eating dinner at this very table, waiting for my mother to come home from college. Mamang and Papang were with me, too, but they weren’t as affectionate. While eating, Papang suddenly slammed his hand, nearly tipping his glass.
“Why do you eat so loudly?! So disgusting. Did we not teach you correctly?!” Papang yelled, his furious eyes burning holes while Mamang said nothing.
“Answer! Did we not teach you correctly?!” Papang continued. And little me obeyed, answering back. I could no longer recall these kinds of memories in detail—or if I even wanted to—and yet, it was all I remember in this home, of my childhood, of Mamang and Papang.
Once again, that familiar hopelessness and terror seeped in, my heart started running, and beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Then, Papang briefly held my hand, taking me away from that terrible memory. Instinctively, I flinched.
“Are you okay, apo? Is there something wrong?” Mamang asked.
“Ye—yes. I’m okay.” I lied.
“Perhaps you’re feeling a little tired—the heat just makes it worse! Say, maybe you’d like some meryenda by the bayside after Palm Sunday?”
For a moment, I hushed the dread coursing through my body and replied politely, words I thought I would never say.
“Of course.”
Nightfall came, and I barely slept well in my childhood bedroom despite the exhaustion I had felt the day before. I was still touched, though, that they had kept everything I left all those years ago, from the cheap stickers stuck on the corner wall, to the little dolls I played with now sitting on the barren shelves, looking back at me. Funnily enough, I wasn’t scared at all—it felt all the more comforting to see them again.
Saturday came and went, and before I knew it, Palm Sunday had already begun. Mamang had the palm leaves ready as we arrived at the church half an hour early. Papang wouldn’t stop babbling to me about the grand architecture of the recently-renovated altar area, which is something new—he had never talked this much about it back then, even though he was someone who openly shared his appreciation for the arts. I, meanwhile, tightly clutched the decorated palm leaves as I would my own mother before she left for work in Dubai, the place where she eventually found a permanent home with her new husband and children.
After mass, we went to the bayside as agreed upon the day before. The sun was already setting, displaying varying shades and splotches of red and purple across the horizon. The place was booming with various street food carts and people lounging around, with some also carrying their own palm leaves.
Each scoop of the ice scramble I bought for myself took me back to that moment in my teenage years—a painful one that creeped up my mind’s eye every now and then.
I was sixteen back then, and slightly rebelling against Mamang and Papang in ways that I could. It was a period when I questioned myself and everything around me—whether I was deserving of love at all, or why I was here in this world in the first place. But in spite of everything, I considered the bayside as my own refuge from the troubles of my life—until that fateful afternoon.
I was supposed to be home immediately after school, but I decided to drop by to take a breather. About an hour in, Mamang saw me sitting by the seawall as I watched the waves crash into the rocks. Without any hesitation, she slapped me, her anger seeping from her palm.
I was shocked, then humiliated. I could feel the stare from every passerby searing into my skin. I couldn’t even remember much of what happened after—my mind seemed to black out after that.
Most of the Holy Week had been uneventful. I spent most of my days in my room working away on my laptop while the dolls continued to stare back at me. Nevertheless, I still came along with Mamang and Papang to church, and even participated in the novenas and pabasas in the house.
But there was still this lingering awkwardness in the air, an invisible wall separating myself from my grandparents. I didn’t want to say a word about it, for fear of disturbing the peace. I didn’t want to be the one opening such a Pandora’s box filled with unresolved issues and grievances.
So there I was, packing my bags for departure in my room Easter evening, when Mamang and Papang entered.
“How are you, apo? Do you need some help?” Mamang asked.
“No need, Mamang, I can do it.”
Mamang looked disheartened. “Okay, apo, just tell us if you need anything.”
At that point, I expected they’d have left my room by now, and yet, they lingered, waiting for something to happen. It was a moment that felt like an eternity, and I fear I knew where it would end. That momentary endlessness was shattered when Papang spoke—a shake in his throat, a downtrodden look in his eyes.
“We haven’t forgotten, apo. We could never forget.”
Mamang held the same expression as Papang, albeit a bit more glum. She spoke.
“All those years we treated you, all that pain. It hit us when you left—we realized how much we took you for granted.”
“We know it won’t do much now, but we’re sorry. Sorry, apo.” Papang said, almost choking on his words.
I wanted to cry. All these years, I have longed for resolution, to be able to look back and tell my younger self we’d eventually be okay. But I knew this was not the answer that little girl would want, and neither did I honestly, for the scars Mamang and Papang etched into my soul will remain there forever. Nevertheless, I fitted my best smile on and spoke.
“It’s okay po, Mamang, Papang.” Whether what I said was true or not is irrelevant, for deep in my heart, I’ve already forgiven them. Not only to set closure between us, but so that little girl can finally rest. The road to forgiveness wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped it would be either, but I knew I needed that.
Without a word, they embraced me, then quietly left my room.
Hours later, I bid my farewells and embraced Mamang and Papang. As I walked away from my childhood home, I could hear Mamang yelling.
“Ingat, apo! Ingat ka pauwi!”
I turned back and waved goodbye, a soft grin on my face—not because I was happy to leave, but because I knew I finally had that chapter in my life finally closed.
