The morning light slipped through the windows, drawing soft patterns on the polished floor tiles. I was already awake, curled up on the living room couch with my knees hugged to my chest, staring at the glow of my phone screen. The sound of birds chirping in the guava tree outside the house filtered in through the open window, mixing with the hum of a passing tricycle and the clatter of pots in the kitchen.
The house wasn't big, but it was home. A simple two-story structure, finished in smooth concrete with wide windows and a front porch where we dried clothes on good days. A television stood in the corner of the sala, and the laminated family portraits above it showed all of us—back when we were younger, less scattered, and not yet stretched across provinces and schedules.
From the kitchen, I heard Nanay's voice rise above the soft bubbling of boiling water.
"Carmela, breakfast's almost ready. Your kuya left early again."
I stood and padded to the dining area, the cool tiles under my feet grounding me. Nanay, in her usual house duster and hair tied up, was moving briskly—pouring hot water into the thermos, packing the leftover rice into a container for Tatay's lunch, and setting the fried eggplant and tuyo on the table.
"Did you sleep well, 'nak?" she asked as she placed a mug of hot choco in front of me.
I nodded. "I did. I just kept thinking about the essay contest next week."
She looked at me, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "You always think about your contests. But you've helped us a lot with those winnings. You're doing good, Carmela. Just don't forget to breathe once in a while."
I smiled into my mug. Nanay worked as a cook, Mondays to Saturdays. She was always moving, always balancing. Even now, her eyes glanced at the kitchen clock every few seconds. She would leave before eight. I knew the drill: I'd help clean up, pack my bag, and walk to school before the 7:30 bell.
Tatay came down the stairs, rubbing the back of his neck, the woodsy scent of varnish clinging to his clothes. He had a carpentry job today—a half-day gig fixing someone's cabinet. His schedule was never regular, but he made the most of every chance to earn.
"'Nay, do we still have nails? The good ones," he asked, already looking for his battered tool bag.
"I put them in the drawer near the sink. Don't forget to eat," she said without looking up.
Tatay sat across from me with a small sigh and reached for a piece of eggplant. "You doing okay in school, Mel?"
"I'm trying," I said quietly, breaking off a piece of pandesal. "It's not easy."
"Hmm. It's never easy, but you're not alone, 'nak."
That was the thing. We weren't rich—not even close. But we got by. Somehow. With Nanay's long hours and Tatay's odd jobs, with Vincent and Alexander both in college—Vincent still figuring out his course and Alexander already juggling part-time shifts and thesis deadlines. We moved like a web. Tug on one thread and the rest shifted to make space, to bear the weight.
After Nanay left for work, I finished the dishes and took a minute on the porch. The mountains loomed in the background, rising like ancient guardians in the mist. Our town sat quietly below their shadow, a place of slopes and pine trees, of old families and new roads.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Raziel:Hey. Library's dead quiet today. Wish you were here.
I smiled faintly. Raziel lived in a town over the ridge, about an hour's jeep ride away. We met during a regional an out of town school activity last semester. He was sharp, quiet, and had a way of listening that made silence feel comfortable. Since then, we'd kept talking—texts, late-night messages, the occasional awkward video call if signal allowed.
Carmela:You always say that. Still haven't convinced me that your library isn't just a dark cave full of ghosts.
Raziel:Not ghosts. Just quiet people who read too much and forget to eat lunch. I fit right in.
He sent a photo—his shoes propped up on a chair, stacks of books on colonial literature in the background. I could almost hear his low chuckle.
Raziel:You okay?
Carmela:Yeah. Just thinking a lot. I miss the city sometimes. But it's also good here.
Raziel:You can miss both. I do.
Later That Evening
By the time I got home, the sun was slipping low behind the mountains, the sky painted with streaks of gold and lavender. Tatay was already back, sitting on the floor with his feet stretched out, working on a broken cabinet hinge someone had dropped off. The scent of pinewood shavings filled the room.
Vincent made a call—something about passing his midterms, finally. Alexander, who was almost never home these days, texted to say he'd be staying near campus again because of night shift.
"Anak," Tatay called out, not looking up from his tools, "your Kuya Vincent said to keep going with school. He said he's proud of you."
I blinked, heart tightening just a little. "Did he really?"
Tatay nodded. "And he said thank you. For the last contest. That helped with some of his school fees."
I looked away, pretending to adjust my school bag. I didn't do it for gratitude. I did it because it was one of the things I could do for them—win contests, earn a little prize money, contribute in the small cracks where things threatened to fall through since I couldn't give too much due to the source being unbelievable. And it helped. Between that and the one time I gave Nanay a little push and she got lucky with the lotto numbers last year—just enough to finish paying off the old motorbike and fix the roof—we could breathe a little easier.
After dinner, I sat in the small corner we called the study nook, wedged beside the stairs. I pulled out my essay draft, but my mind wandered again. My phone lit up.
Raziel:You ever wonder if we're meant to stay in the places we were born in?
I stared at the message.
Carmela:Sometimes. But I think people like us… we carry home with us. We don't leave it behind. Even when we go.
Raziel:Yeah. That sounds like something you'd write.
A pause.
Raziel:I hope I get to read more of your writing someday.
I stared at the screen for a moment before replying.
Carmela:I hope so too.
Near Midnight
The house was quiet now. Tatay had long gone to bed. The cicadas outside had faded into the rhythm of the night wind. I sat on my bed, blanket over my knees, rereading Raziel's last message.
There was a part of me that wondered what it would be like—to live somewhere else, to escape the gossip and the expectations and the people who always assumed you were "just the carpenter's daughter." But then I'd think of the mountains, the soft lull of Nanay's voice in the morning, and the smell of wood varnish and rice cooking on weekends.
This was home.
Not perfect. Not easy.
But still—home.
And maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to leave it behind to build something new.