We passed everything I once passed daily, back when I lived with my parents, before I became someone’s wife in the city. Wobbly roads, familiar decrepit buildings, new strip malls, my alma matter, quaint new cafes; where were those when I lived there? When we arrived, I stepped out of the car and a breeze tinged with nice, clean scent of laundry detergent enfolded me. The narrow street leading to the house was puddled here and there with soapy water, and people walking around it trying to avoid the wet mess, dressed unusually nice, reminded me it was Sunday. They must be going to church, I thought. I caught sight of my mother receiving a delivery of what I can only guess is frozen meat and deli. I smiled at the thought I surmised in my head: she’s going to cook her daughter a proper breakfast. When I reached front door, she came back holding out some plastic bag with little whirls of smoke coming out of it. I am touched by the sincerity. How thoughtful she is, my mother. How does packing lunch for your daughter’s husband simply went without saying?

 When I stepped inside the house, my eight-year-old brother came running towards me, beaming, smiling with the whole of his mouth and eyes. Something about the tight little voice and delicate child-hands trying to hoist me into a hug, made my heart well up with love. We used to be so close, almost joined at the hips, now, we only rarely see each other and he’s taller than I remembered. We spent the morning on the couch, limbs tangled on the center table. He taught me how to play Grow a Garden, a game on Roblox, which was both cute and totally pointless, as most cute things are. I could hear my mother clattering pans in the kitchen, the sizzle of hotdogs hitting oil, clinks of cutlery, spatula scraping the wok. She has made everything like she always did on Sundays. Fried rice with bits of garlic, eggs, sunny-side up crusted and browned at the edges, just how we like it, hotdogs, lumpia, and my childhood favorite store-bought sisig. 

 In the afternoon, we waited for the on-again-off-again rain to dissipate and took a tricycle to the new mall, which wasn’t there yet four years ago. Traffic was heavy on the main road because someone’s cows—yes, literal cows—were wandering the road unherded. Bulacan core. We arrived eventually. My little brother, soaked through, hadn’t told us he’d been getting rained on the whole time.  The back of his wet shirt, clinged to him like second skin. Why do children do this? why do they think telling anyone of their discomfort is so shameful? We asked but he just shrugged. My mom bought him a dry shirt, two sizes big, so he won’t outgrow it too fast. Always thinking ahead. 

 We wandered the mall like old times. My brothers zigzagged between watch stores and sports shop, marveling at things they couldn’t yet afford but knew all the specs for. I trailed behind, scouting out where to feed them later, pretending I wasn’t a grown-up now. After much argument, we eventually decided on pizza and pasta. 

 I didn’t realize how much I missed them until I had to leave again. Traffic, of course, was impossible. My brothers stood by the curb and waited with me until my ride arrived. My mother made sure I got into the car before they all waved and turned away. I got home just before nine. My husband was waiting at the gate and his face lit up so obviously at the sight of the paper bag I had in hand. His favorite brownies carefully packed inside. A peace treaty for leaving him alone for the whole day.