Bound By Blood And Love

SHYANN "Hi Ate!" My brother waves to the camera. His on the Philippines right now. I'm from the Philippines and working here on Italy. "Where's mom?" I asked him. "She's outside cooking for dinner." he answered. "Khalil is that Ate?" I heard the voice of my little sister Natasha. "Yes!" Khalil shouted at the phone. I saw Natasha on my screen and said. "Ate can you give me money for my dress? It's already our prom." She asked me. "Do you think I'm pooping money Natasha?" I asked her and raised my eyebrows. Natasha's face fell, her lower lip beginning to protrude in a familiar pout. "Ate, please! Everyone else has a new dress. I don't want to wear my old one again, it's so embarrassing." Her voice was starting to have that slight whine she used when she knew she was pushing her luck. I sighed, running a hand through my hair. The exhaustion from my long shift at the restaurant was already setting in, and this conversation wasn't helping. "Natasha, you know how hard I work here. Money doesn't just grow on trees, especially not here. I send what I can, always. But a prom dress? That's not exactly a necessity, is it?" "But it's my prom," she insisted, as if that explained everything. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime thing!" Khalil, who had been quietly observing, chimed in. "Ate, it's true, all her friends are getting new ones. She's been really sad about it." He gave me an apologetic look, knowing he was putting me in a difficult spot. My gaze flickered between their hopeful faces on the screen. It wasn't that I didn't want to give her money; it was that every centavo I earned had a designated purpose back home: rent, groceries, Khalil's tuition, Mom's medication. Sending money for a luxury item like a prom dress felt like taking away from a necessity. The guilt, thick and heavy, started to settle in my chest, a constant companion for any OFW. "Ate, just a little? Even a small amount would help," Natasha pleaded, her big, dark eyes wide. I closed my own eyes for a brief moment, picturing the piles of dirty dishes I'd have to wash tonight, the aching in my feet, the loneliness of my small room in Rome. "Let me see, okay, Natasha?" I said, the words coming out softer than I intended. "I'll try to find some extra. But I can't promise anything big. Prom dresses are expensive, even there." A smile instantly bloomed on her face. "Really, Ate? Thank you! You're the best!" She bounced slightly, completely oblivious, or perhaps just choosing to ignore, the weight of the effort those "extra" funds would entail. Khalil gave me a small, understanding nod, a silent apology for his sister's request. Just then, Mom's voice drifted into the frame. "Khalil, tell your Ate to wait! The adobo is almost ready, I'll show her!" The familiar scent of garlic and soy sauce, even through the digital connection, brought a sudden wave of homesickness that threatened to drown me. I pushed it down, pasting on a smile for my mother. "Don't worry, Ma, I'm waiting." A moment later, Mom’s face filled the screen, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, a smear of flour on her cheek. Her eyes, so much like my own, crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “Anak! How are you? Are you eating enough? You look thin.” The familiar cascade of questions, laced with worry and love, washed over me. “Ma, I’m fine. I just finished work.” I tried to sound cheerful, to hide the fatigue that clung to me like a second skin. “What are you cooking? It smells good even from here.” She laughed, a warm, comforting sound. “Adobo, of course! Your favorite. I wish you were here to eat it. It’s not the same without you.” She paused, her gaze softening. “It’s hard, isn’t it, anak? Being so far away.” My throat tightened. “It’s okay, Ma. I’m doing what I have to do.” I glanced at Natasha, who was still beaming at the thought of a new dress, then at Khalil, who squeezed his sister's shoulder gently. They were why I was here. They were why I pushed through every long shift, every lonely night. “Don’t work too hard, okay, anak?” Mom urged, her voice tinged with the helplessness of a mother who couldn’t physically comfort her child across oceans. “We pray for you every day.” We talked for another few minutes, about the mundane details of their day – Khalil’s upcoming exams, the neighbor’s new puppy, the rain that had finally broken the dry spell. It was ordinary, yet it was everything. It was the life I was missing, the life I was working to sustain. Then, as dinner was truly ready, Mom had to go. “Eat well, anak! We love you!” “I love you too, Ma. Khalil, Natasha, take care of yourselves.” As the video call ended, the vibrant colors of their home screen faded, replaced by my own reflection in the dark glass of my phone. My smile faltered, then vanished completely I was back in my tiny apartment in the outskirts of Rome, the silence heavy and suffocating. The scent of garlic and soy sauce was gone, replaced by the faint, lingering smell of my restaurant uniform – oil, old wine, and detergent. I trudged to the small, uncomfortable sofa and sank into it, pulling my knees to my chest. Natasha’s request echoed in my mind. “Ate, just a little? Even a small amount would help.” She had no idea. How could she? She was a high school student, innocent to the harsh realities of the world outside of their small, sun-drenched town. To her, Ate was a seemingly endless well of resources, a magical ATM across the sea. But I wasn’t an ATM. I was a waitress, a cleaner, a scullery maid, working ten-hour days six days a week, often more. My hands ached, my feet throbbed, and my mind was a constant ledger of expenses and remittances. Every Euro I earned had a name and a purpose: €200 for rent, €150 for utilities and Khalil’s Internet allowance, €300 for groceries and Mom’s diabetes medication, €50 for Natasha’s school supplies and small allowances, €100 for my own meager food and transportation. Whatever was left, if anything, went into an emergency fund for them, or sometimes, rarely, a small, desperately needed item for myself. A prom dress. It sounded so frivolous, so far removed from the daily struggle of keeping food on their table and a roof over their heads. Yet, I knew what it meant to Natasha. It meant belonging, acceptance, a cherished memory. It meant not being the poor one, the one with the hand-me-down clothes. It meant her dignity, in a way. The guilt tightened its grip. How could I say no to her? To my little sister, who simply wanted to experience a normal rite of passage? But how could I say yes without jeopardizing something more essential? I closed my eyes again, the image of my mother’s tired yet loving face superimposing itself over Natasha’s hopeful one. Mom never asked for anything for herself, just worried about us, her children. She knew the sacrifices I made. She was the one who packed my worn suitcase with small, precious things when I left, telling me to be brave. I remembered the day I decided to leave. Khalil was just starting college and his tuition fees were spiraling. Mom’s health was starting to decline, requiring more frequent doctor visits and medication. My father, bless his soul, had passed away years prior, leaving us with little but memories and a small patch of land that barely yielded enough. I was the eldest, the Ate, and the responsibility fell squarely on my shoulders. I was 22 then, full of apprehension but also steely resolve. Italy promised higher wages, a chance to provide. The first few months were brutal. The language barrier, the loneliness, the cold indifference of a big city, the relentless grind of work. I cried myself to sleep many nights, clutching a worn photo of my family. But then, I’d remember their faces, and I’d get up, brush myself off, and face another day. Now, Natasha’s prom dress. I mentally recalculated my budget. Was there anything I could cut? My small weekly treat of a cheap cappuccino? The bus fare I sometimes took instead of walking the longer route to save time? My plan to replace my threadbare work shoes? The small amount I had managed to save for a new phone, mine slowly dying? No, those were too small to make a significant dent for a dress. A prom dress, even a modest one, could easily cost 2,000 to 3,000 pesos back home, maybe more. That was €35-€50. For me, that was a week’s worth of my own food budget. A deep sigh escaped my lips. I knew there was only one way. Overtime. More hours, more aching feet, more solitude. My restaurant often needed extra hands, especially on weekends, but I usually reserved Sundays for rest, for laundry, for a quick video call to my best friend, for the precious few hours I had to myself. But Natasha’s prom… It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, she had said. A memory she would carry. Was my personal comfort worth more than her happiness? The answer was immediate and clear, even if it brought a fresh wave of weariness. No. It wasn’t. I pulled out my phone again, not to call home, but to check the work schedule for the coming week. There was an open shift on Saturday night, an extra five hours. And maybe, if I pushed, I could get an early morning shift on Sunday too, before the main rush. It would be grueling, almost certainly meaning I’d miss my call with my best friend and feel like a zombie for days, but it was doable. It was the only way. "Okay, Natasha," I whispered to the silent screen, a new resolve hardening my expression. "Ate will find a way. For you." It was a promise I made to her, and to myself. A promise that cemented my role, my purpose, my sacrifice. The cycle continued, always.