When The Rain Paused

Chapter 5

I didn’t know why I expected the house to feel smaller after I moved out. It didn’t. It still wrapped around me the moment I stepped through the gate, like time hadn’t moved.

The swing in the front yard still squeaked with the wind. The cracks on the path to the door were still there, ones I used to hop over as a kid like stepping stones. Nothing had changed.

Except me.

Mom opened the door before I could even knock. “You still forget your keys,” she teased, pulling me into a hug that lingered a bit longer than usual.

I let her. I didn’t want to admit I needed it.

Dinner smelled like childhood, steamed rice, ginger, fried garlic. She cooked tinola and lumpiang shanghai, just like she always did when one of us needed comforting.

“Sit,” she said. “You look thinner. Are you eating enough?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes a little.

“Being fine doesn’t mean you’re eating right.” But she smiled. And that smile carried more than concern, it carried relief. Relief that I was here. That I came home.

We ate at the small round table, just the two of us. She asked questions in between bites. About the place, the plants, the neighbors. About Ryan, subtly, like she was trying to measure what role he played now.

“Merida told me he helped you fix the shelves,” she said.

I shrugged. “He was just there.”

“Oh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t invite him.”

“But you didn’t kick him out,” she replied, taking a sip of soup.

“Mom.”

She laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying, it’s nice to see someone stick around. He’s been around a lot lately, hasn’t he?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. She saw it anyway.

We finished eating and moved to the kitchen, and I helped her with the dishes, rinsing and drying in silence. That’s when the warmth started to slip into something heavier.

“Mom,” I said, finally, hands still wet. “Can I ask you something?”

She paused, a plate still in her hand. She looked at me, not startled, just suddenly more still.

“Of course, baby.”

I dried my hands and leaned back against the counter, fingers tight around the towel.

“I saw someone,” I said slowly. “His name’s Ellis.”

Her hands stopped moving. She set the plate down gently in the rack, then turned to face me fully.

I couldn’t read her face. Not surprise. Not fear. Just… quiet recognition.

“Said he used to know you,” I added.

She sat down at the table again. I followed.

For a long second, she didn’t say anything.

Then, softly, “I knew this day would come.”

My chest tightened. “Why didn’t you ever mention him?”

She folded her hands on the table, her wedding ring glinting faintly under the kitchen light.

“Because he was a chapter I closed a long time ago,” she said. “And because your father… was the rest of the story.”

I stayed quiet, waiting.

“We were young, Ellis and I,” she began. “Met in college. He was studying literature. Always had a notebook with him. We used to sit under this acacia tree after class and talk about poems, about leaving the country, about what we thought love was.”

Her voice had softened. Not fond, not bitter, just honest.

“He wanted to go abroad. I wanted to stay. We tried. It didn’t work.”

I nodded. “Did he break your heart?”

She looked at me. “No. I think we both knew we weren’t meant to last. But it still hurt. You can love someone and still know you can’t follow them.”

Something about that hit me deeper than I expected.

“Years later, I met your dad,” she continued. “He was everything Ellis wasn’t. Grounded. Steady. Gentle in a way that made me feel safe.”

“And you never looked back?”

“I thought I never needed to.”

I swallowed hard. “Did Dad know about him?”

She paused. “He did. But I told him Ellis was in the past, and he trusted that.”

A long breath left my lungs. I didn’t know what I’d been hoping for, some dramatic reveal? A scandal?

But what I got was... human. A quiet kind of pain. A choice made long ago. And the silence that followed it.

“He told me he just wanted to see your daughter once,” I said. “That’s what he said to me.”

Mom looked down at her hands.

“I didn’t know he’d still carry it,” she whispered.

“Carry what?”

“Me. Us. The memory.”

The weight in my chest shifted, less confusion now, more clarity.

“I’m not mad,” I said gently. “I just... needed to hear it from you.”

She nodded. “Thank you for asking. For not assuming.”

“I just want to know you,” I added, “not just as Mom. But as you. As a woman, a person, with stories.”

Her eyes welled a little. “I’ve always wanted to protect you from the pieces of me I wasn’t proud of.”

“This isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

She reached for my hand. “Then maybe one day I’ll tell you the rest.”

I squeezed it. “I’d like that.” then smiled

---

When I left later that night, the sky was clear, stars blinking faintly above the quiet street.

Before I crossed the gate, I looked back at the house.

My home.

But not my whole story anymore.

---

Back in my store or house, I lay in bed and opened my phone. Ryan’s name was already on the screen.

Ryan [9:18 PM]:

How’d it go?

I stared at the message, then typed slowly

Me [9:23 PM]:

Hard. But good. She told me her truth.

Ryan [9:24 PM]:

And how do you feel?

Me [9:25 PM]:

Like I’m seeing her for the first time. And maybe... seeing myself, too.

A pause.

Then his reply

Ryan [9:26 PM]:

You’re growing. That’s the hardest kind of brave.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe growing wasn’t always about moving out or standing alone, maybe sometimes, it was about going back, just long enough to ask the questions you didn’t have the courage to ask before

I didn’t expect to see Ryan the next morning.

But there he was, outside my apartment, leaning against the wall by the gate, two cups of coffee in hand, and his hair still damp like he’d rushed straight from a shower.

“You’re early,” I said, brushing sleep from my eyes as I stepped out

He held out one of the cups. “I owed you a decent breakfast.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You bribing me with caffeine?”

“Is it working?”

I took the cup. “Barely.”

He smiled, but not as wide as usual.

Something about him today felt quieter. Not tired, exactly. Just... different.

“Wanna walk for a bit?” he asked. “There’s a bench near the park. Feels too good outside to stay indoors.”

So we walked.

He let me sip in silence while the morning air rustled the leaves overhead. The street was still waking up, just a few joggers, the soft ring of a tricycle bell, and the hum of a slow Tuesday morning.

We reached the bench and sat.

I waited.

And waited.

And just when I thought he’d say something stupid to lighten the mood, he spoke.

“My mom left when I was nine.”

I turned to him.

“She packed a bag, said goodbye, and just... left. I remember thinking she’d be back before dinner.”

He didn’t look at me. Just stared ahead, eyes blank but open.

“She didn’t come back.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“Everyone had their theories, some said she found someone new, others said she had mental health stuff, or just couldn’t do it anymore. I don’t know. My dad didn’t talk about it. Just started drinking.”

I didn’t interrupt. I just let him speak, let the quiet hold space for the things he’d been carrying too long.

“For years, I tried not to hate her,” he continued, voice low. “Some days I did. Some days I missed her so bad it hurt.”

I gently reached out and placed my hand on top of his. I didn’t say anything. Words felt too small.

“She sends letters now. Random ones. Like, once a year. Birthday cards, sometimes a photo, never a return address.”

“Do you read them?” I asked softly.

“Every word,” he said. “Then I fold them up and keep them in a box I never open twice.”

The breeze shifted slightly, brushing through the trees.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” he added. “Not even Merida.”

I squeezed his hand.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He turned to me finally, eyes glassy but steady.

“I guess I just didn’t want you thinking I’ve got everything figured out. You said that once. That I make things look easy.”

“I was wrong,” I said. “I didn’t know this part of you.”

“And now you do.”

We sat in silence after that. The kind of silence that felt heavy and honest and safe all at once.

Eventually, he smiled faintly and said, “Don’t tell anyone I got all emotional. It’ll ruin my street cred.”

I laughed, wiping at the corner of my eye. “Your street cred is nonexistent.”

He rolled his eyes. “You wound me.”

We finished our coffee there. Let the world pass slowly by.