I remember the rain most of all.
Not the sound of his footsteps leaving, or the exact words he said—if he said anything at all. But the rain? It poured like the sky had lost its mind. Heavy, wild drops pelted the yero roof and smeared the windows until the whole world looked like it was crying.
I was seven. Wearing mismatched socks and my favorite yellow sweater with a tear under the arm. The same one Tatay bought from the night market in Divisoria. I was sitting on the cold wooden floor by the front door, clutching my knees to my chest, watching the blurry shape of his Toyota Revo back out of our small driveway.
He didn't even look back.
"Babalik siya, 'di ba?" I whispered, more to the door than to anyone else.
The door still smelled like him—his cologne, that mix of cedarwood, aftershave, and the faint musk of old barong tags he never had dry cleaned. I pressed my nose against the wood and breathed it in like it could bring him back. It didn't. All it brought was the sting of disappointment and the cold bite of the metal doorknob against my cheek.
That night, I didn't cry. Not because I wasn't hurting—I was. But because I wasn't allowed. My mother walked past me once, twice, three times, silent as a ghost in her duster and house slippers. No arms around me. No explanation. Just the soft clinking of plates as she cleared the untouched sinigang from the table. Her heels—yes, she still wore heels inside the house—clicked on the floor like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence she refused to say.
"Nakakahiya kung makita tayo ng kapitbahay na ganyan," she muttered once when I cried too loud. "Be strong. We don't cry over people who leave."
So I didn't.
The house felt too big without his voice, too quiet. Every sound magnified. The hum of the old refrigerator. The electric fan rotating with its dying, mechanical groan. The occasional creak of wood that made me flinch, half-hoping it was the sound of him coming home. Even the dog next door barked differently, like it too noticed someone was missing.
That night I couldn't sleep, I stared at the ceiling. The rain had soaked through the broken roofing and left a wet stain above our little altar. Even after it dried, it left a shadow—dull gray against the white paint. My mother never repainted it. Maybe she didn't see it. Maybe she just stopped looking up.
Weeks passed. Tag-ulan rolled into ber months. My waiting changed.
At first, I sat on the floor for hours, legs falling asleep, eyes fixed on the empty road. I imagined what I'd say if he returned. I rehearsed it: "I knew you'd come back. I didn't stop waiting." Sometimes I even dreamed the door would swing open, and he'd kneel down and say, "Anak, sorry. I just got lost."
Once, Lola Nene from next door tapped on our gate and asked, "Andiyan si Papa mo?"
I shook my head.
She looked at me the way people do when they already know the answer but still hope you'll surprise them. She handed me puto in a banana leaf and said, "Kain ka, 'nak. Hindi mo kasalanan, ha?"
Her kindness almost made me cry. But I remembered what Mama said. So I nodded, smiled, and ate in silence.
Eventually, I stopped sitting. I started standing behind the curtain—the one with faded rose embroidery—and peeked. Just a glance. Just in case.
After a while, even that stopped. The hope began to rot inside me. Not like fruit, which sours softly. More like rust—slow, quiet corrosion. You don't notice it until the structure starts to crumble beneath your feet.
Still, sometimes when I walked past his old slippers by the back door—still sitting there like he'd return—I imagined his voice.
"Anak, tara. Let's get taho."
I used to ride on his shoulders when the magtataho came, giggling as he shouted from the gate, "Bossing! Dito ho!"
I used to believe that memory made me lucky. Now it just made me feel stupid.
So I built something stronger.
Not out of people, but out of grades, achievements, and gold stars. I joined spelling bees. Memorized science facts. Lined up ribbons like armor. My fortress was made of certificates and laminated medals Mama hung in the hallway like proof that at least one thing in the house hadn't fallen apart.
She'd smile then. Not with her eyes, but with a small nod, her mouth tight with pride. "Good. Keep being useful."
So I did.
I became so good, so responsible, so independent that eventually no one bothered to check if I was okay.
Including me.
Years later, the stain on the ceiling was still there. Faded, but visible. Like a scar the house chose to keep. A reminder.
So was I.
A stain. A scar. A girl who learned too early that people don't always stay.
And even earlier that no one would answer the question I carried in my chest.
Why wasn't I worth staying for?
That was the first time I said it to myself.
And the last time I expected someone else to answer.