I dated my mom’s ex

KAEL’S POV The scent of fresh croissants and roasted chestnuts clings to every breath I take as I stand in my booth at the Paris Arts Market, spread out across the Jardin des Tuileries. White marquee tents dot the lawn like giant mushrooms between perfectly trimmed hedges and statues that look like they’ve been watching over this city forever. I press my palm against the canvas backdrop, smoothing out a wrinkle in my large print of Rue des Rosiers at golden hour — the one where I’ve painted vintage Citroëns parked beneath oak trees turning amber and rust with autumn. Not too shabby for your first time showcasing here, Mia says, popping a roasted chestnut into her mouth as she leans against my table. She flew all the way from Manila just for this, and her black-and-white photos hang two booths down — shots of fishermen at Manila Bay, kids playing patintero back home in Cebu, even portraits of Parisians she’s befriended since arriving last week. Though I still think you should’ve brought your actual paintings instead of just design mockups. I force a smile, adjusting the stack of business cards beside my laptop — each one has my tiny illustration of the Eiffel Tower twisted into the shape of Cebu Island. “Mom says graphic design is more reliable,” I tell her, my fingers tracing the edge of the print. “She thinks painting is just a hobby I need to grow out of. If she knew I spent three months on those canvases instead of taking the Galeries Lafayette branding job, she’d lose it. Keeps saying I need to be practical, build a portfolio for a ‘real job’ in the 16th arrondissement.” Your mom needs to realize reliable doesn’t mean miserable, Mia rolls her eyes. She’s known me since we were seven in Carcar, watching me sneak sketchbooks into math class to draw our teachers as cartoon characters. Remember when you painted that mural on your grandma’s wall — the one with tikbalangs and aswangs dancing under a full moon? She loved that, even if she acted like it was too much. My chest warms at the memory. Lola Rosa kept that mural spotless until the day she died three years ago, wiping away rain streaks with a soft cloth and telling every neighbor her grandson would be famous. “She was the only one who ever believed that,” I say, opening my laptop to pull up my digital files. “Mom just thinks I’m wasting my talent. She left Cebu for Paris when I was seven, worked three jobs to get us here — says she didn’t sacrifice everything so I could play around with paint.” Before Mia can fire back with her usual defense of my art, a shadow falls over the booth. I look up and find a tall man standing there, his broad shoulders filling the space between the tent poles. Sun-kissed skin, dark curly hair falling just above his collar, a well-worn beret pushed back like an afterthought. His linen shirt is the color of dark roast coffee, with stains on the cuffs that look earned, not careless. “Your work is incredible,” he says, his eyes fixed on my Rue des Rosiers print. His voice is deep and warm, with a lilt that mixes French and Cebuano — the way my mom speaks when she’s talking to old friends. “You’ve captured how the light hits the limestone just right — that twenty minutes of gold around sunset. I walk that street twice some days and never saw it like this. You’ve got both history and life in it.” My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful for the afternoon sun that’s already warming my skin. “Thanks,” I say, straightening up a little. “I’ve lived off Rue des Rosiers for three years now — top floor of a building that used to be a bakery in the 1920s. I guess I’ve always watched how things change here, but how some stay the same. The boulangeries baking at four in the morning, shopkeepers greeting each other with kisses — it reminds me of home.” He nods, his gaze moving from the print to my face. “I’m Marcus Dela Cruz. I own Le Café Kapok just around the corner. We’re opening a new space and looking for someone to do wall art — something that ties us to the neighborhood, honors the Filipino community here. Not just trendy coffee stuff.” Mia nudges my elbow, wiggling her eyebrows before slipping away. I’ll be at my booth if you need me — and yes, I’ll be watching. I fumble with my laptop trackpad, pulling up the MURAL CONCEPTS folder I’ve been too nervous to show anyone. “I’ve got ideas,” I say quickly. “French New Wave mixed with Filipino cinema posters — Mom used to take me to the old theater on Colon Street. Coffee motifs from both Cebu’s waterfront and Paris’s docks. Even textile patterns like Mom weaves — she still makes hablon in her studio in the 13th.” “Textile patterns?” His face lights up, and I notice a small scar above his right eyebrow, curved like a crescent moon. “My grandma used to make hablon back in Cebu — tablecloths, handkerchiefs, even my first barong. When I moved here eight years ago, she sent me a piece woven with Filipino and French patterns — it’s on my office wall. Hey, want to talk more over coffee? I’ve got a new blend testing — beans from a farm near Carcar. I think you’ll get it.” I glance at Mia’s booth — she’s pretending to adjust her photos while staring right at us — then back at him. His eyes are bright with real interest, not just the polite curiosity I usually get from clients. “I’d like that,” I say, closing my laptop and sliding it into my bag. “Give me a minute to pack up.” MARCUS’S POV I’ve been walking through the Arts Market for an hour, looking for something that feels real — not just the polished, tourist-friendly art that fills most of these tents. Then I see it: a print of Rue des Rosiers that captures exactly what I love about that street — the way the light turns limestone to gold, the way life spills out from every doorway. The artist is standing there, a young guy with dark hair and eyes that look like they’ve seen both the Philippines and Paris in equal measure. Not too shabby for your first time showcasing here, his friend says — a woman from Manila, if her accent is anything to go by. I hang back a little, listening as they talk, watching how he smooths his hand over the print like he’s checking on a living thing. “Mom says graphic design is more reliable,” he tells her, and I catch the edge of frustration in his voice. I know that feeling — my own father wanted me to take over the family’s fishing business in Cebu instead of chasing coffee dreams halfway around the world. When his friend steps away, I move forward. “Your work is incredible,” I say, and I mean it. “You’ve captured how the light hits the limestone just right — that twenty minutes of gold around sunset.” He blushes a little, which I find endearing, and explains he lives just off the street. “It reminds me of home,” he says, and something in his voice tugs at my chest — that same ache I feel when I smell langka or hear someone speaking Cebuano on the metro. “I’m Marcus Dela Cruz,” I tell him, pointing toward the direction of my café. “We’re looking for wall art for our new space — something that honors the Filipino community here.” His face lights up as he pulls up his laptop files, showing me designs that mix French New Wave with Filipino cinema, coffee motifs with traditional weaves. “My mom weaves hablon,” he says, and I feel a jolt of recognition — the way he talks about it sounds just like my grandma used to. “I’ve got a new blend testing — beans from a farm near Carcar,” I say before I can think better of it. I rarely invite potential artists to the café this quickly, but something about him feels familiar, like we’ve known each other in another life. He agrees, and as he packs up his things, I take a moment to look around his booth — the way he’s arranged his prints, the tiny details in his illustrations, the business cards with Cebu Island twisted into the Eiffel Tower. He’s put his heart into this work, that much is clear. We set off through narrow side streets I know like the back of my hand, and I find myself pointing out things I usually keep to myself. “That faded sign used to be a Filipino grocery store in the 80s,” I say, nodding toward a wall covered in vines. “This mosaic here — it shows a ship bringing coffee from the Philippines to France. My grandma used to tell me stories about those ships.” “This neighborhood has always been where cultures meet,” I explain as we turn onto the quiet street where Le Café Kapok sits. “Filipinos, Vietnamese, Algerians, French — we all make our homes here. That’s what I want my café to be — a place where you can get café au lait and adobo if you want it.” I push open the door to the café, letting the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon wash over us. The space is exactly how I imagined it would be when I first signed the lease five years ago — exposed brick walls with photos of coffee farms from around the world, shelves with books in three languages, a courtyard visible through the back window. I lead him to our corner table, the one with the best light. “I’ve been working on this blend for six months,” I say, setting down two ceramic mugs. One has latte art shaped like waves — I practiced that design for weeks — and the other is black coffee in a mug from a Cebu cooperative I’ve worked with for years. “The beans are from a small farm in the highlands near Carcar. The farmer’s grandfather used to work with my own grandpa back home.”