Page 16 of Hate You to Love You

‘I’m eating,’ I reply, trying to put her mind at ease.

‘I wasn’t sure if you were still coming, but I got all the ingredients to make your favourites. What would you like? Longganisa? I could make Lechon, but it might take a while to get the skin crispy,’ she tells me. As she does, I notice the smell of the sweet and savoury sauce, grilled meat and garlic rice that lingers in the air.

‘Whatever you have is great, really,’ I say as we head into the dining room. There’s a large platter of longganisa on the table, a bowl of rice and some scrambled eggs to the side. ‘That’s a lot of food. Are you expecting someone else?’

‘Father John sometimes stops by after evening mass,’ she explains. ‘It’s nice having visitors.’

A wave of sadness hits my heart, laced with the guilt of realising that I don’t see Mum enough. But the silence that has echoed within the walls of this house ever since Dad passed is overwhelming. Even as she stands there, in Snoopy pyjamas that make me want to reach out and hug her again, it hurts being here. I can’t even bring myself to look at his seat at the dining table – a seat that has remained empty since he last sat in it. Everywhere, there are reminders that he’s gone: the plants in the garden that have wilted away, the thick layer of dust that has fallen over his DVD collection.

‘Was there something you wanted to talk about?’ I ask my mum, rubbing my arms as I sit down opposite her. It always feels cold in here these days.

‘I just wanted to have dinner with you,’ she explains without making eye contact.

But I can tell from her expression that there’s something she can’t bring herself to say out loud.

Mum took Dad’s death the hardest. She had her faith, and visiting the church to pray for Dad was a comfort to her, but the sadness made her unrecognisable at times. Especially because nothing I did seemed to help lift her out of her grief. There were weeks when we stopped speaking to each other. Not because of any argument, but rather because, without Dad, we had nothing to say to one another. Slowly, we had become strangers.

‘Mum,’ I say with a sigh, ‘I know you. Is there something wrong? Can I help with anything?’

‘It’s the house,’ she says abruptly. ‘I’m selling it.’

Mum still refuses to look at me as she scoops a spoonful of rice and puts it down on my plate. ‘It’s something that has been on my mind for a while. Without your dad here, I don’t need a house this large. And you know what your dad was like. He would have wanted both of us to live life just like he did. He would have wanted me to enjoy myself, keep travelling, to see places that he never got time to. Remember how much he talked about wanting to visit Scandinavia? Selling the house will allow me to do that.’

‘But this is our home,’ I insist. My breath is shallow, my fists clenched.

‘It’s not just that,’ she says, and then takes a bite out of the longganisa on her plate. ‘I’ve also been thinking about the family we still have in Manila. It might be time for me to go back.’

‘For a visit?’

‘For good,’ she admits.

Her news hits me hard. ‘If this is about you being alone here, I can move back in. Addie won’t mind if I move out,’ I offer.

‘It’s not about that,’ she puts her fork down on the plate. ‘It just makes much more sense to be with the rest of the family. I think it’s time we let this house go.’

Agitated, I begin to rub my temple. ‘That doesn’t mean you have to sell it! Dad’s gone… What am I supposed to do without you here?’

Regret eats away at my gut. It dawns on me that that I’ve taken having Mum by my side for granted.

‘I know you miss your dad. And I know how much this house means to you. But this makes the most sense,’ she says. ‘I’ve already spoken to an agent, and we’ve put the house on the market. They think it will be sold within a month.’

Her words make my stomach drop. Home may not have felt the same without Dad here, but the thought of someone else living in the space where he taught me to fall in love with movies – and with life – seems wrong. Giving up this place will leave all those memories we shared together as a family here in the past. Didn’t Mum want to hold on to Dad as much as possible?

She offers me more food, but I’ve completely lost my appetite.

‘I know it will be hard to say goodbye to this place, but I’d really like it if you could help me get it ready to sell. There’s a lot to pack up,’ she says.

I don’t answer, my hands balled into fists on the tabletop.

‘Carlos?’ she asks, concerned.

‘I should go,’ I mutter, getting to my feet. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Carlos!’ Mum calls out again, her voice trembles slightly.

I shut my eyes, pausing in the front doorway. We’ve already said goodbye to Dad once. How can she bear to do it again?

‘We’ll talk soon,’ I say abruptly, rushing out the door and down the front path. This house was supposed to be somewhere I could run to and remember the good times in my life. Now it was the last place I wanted to be. So, as I take the train back to the city, I go to the last safe place I have left: my memories.