Love Me Tender

II. Manila Days

THE MORNING SUN in Manila had a particular softness to it, like the kind of warmth you only feel when you're still half-asleep. It slipped through the sheer curtains of my bedroom and rested gently on my cheeks, waking me more tenderly than any alarm ever could. I always slept with my windows open, just a little, enough for the early breeze to sneak in, enough for the city to remind me it was awake.

I was fifteen then.

My life was quiet. Not dull—just quiet. It was the kind of quiet that filled the room between two people who loved each other but didn’t always know how to show it. She was a woman of discipline and few words, someone who rarely raised her voice but always raised an eyebrow. We had a rhythm, she and I.

She’d leave for work early, her heels clicking against the hallway tiles like a familiar song. I’d follow an hour later, dressed in my uniform, my hair pulled back into something neat. My world, then, was pressed pleats, hot pan de sal, and jeepneys that always ran five minutes too fast.

My father worked overseas. I hadn’t seen him in nearly two years. He used to call every Sunday, like clockwork, just before dinner. I’d sit cross-legged on my bed, twirling the phone cord around my finger, listening to his voice float in through the line like some old song I was trying not to forget.

He always asked the same questions—"Are you eating well? Are you still drawing?" And he always ended with the same promise: "I'll be home soon, baby. Just a little while longer."

But he never came home. Not really. And when he does, he was always tired, always checking his phone, always leaving before I could memorize his face again.

As much as I couldn't really admit it, he was always absent. He wasn't there for my birthday, nor was he there for my graduation back in elementary.

I think I learned to keep my hopes small, then. Manageable. Like tiny boxes I could stack neatly in my chest. I kept my dreams there too—folded up, tucked away. My dream of becoming an artist. Of seeing New York, or Paris. Of falling in love with someone kind.

In school, I kept to myself. I wasn’t invisible, but I never quite glowed. I was the girl who listened more than she spoke. The one who helped with group work but never raised her hand. I had friends, good ones, but there were things I never told them. Things like how I cried the night my father forgot my birthday, or how sometimes I wished my mother would hug me without reason.

My mother, Leticia, moved like someone carrying invisible weight. Her steps were slower, her hands quieter. She no longer wore her coral lipstick in the mornings, nor did she hum along to the old Kundiman records Papa brought home one Christmas. There were times I’d catch her sitting by the window, staring out blankly toward the highway like she was waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

I didn’t ask her what it was.

There’s something about growing up in a house where silence becomes a second language. You learn quickly what not to say, when to pretend you didn’t hear something, when to smile even if it doesn't reach your eyes.

The walls of our house were yellowed with time and heat. The kind of yellow that feels like it used to be bright but got tired of trying. The curtains were always drawn halfway. They fluttered whenever the wind pushed through the cracked panes, and sometimes, if I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was somewhere else.

“I saw him again today,” I said softly one evening, helping my mother pack leftovers into plastic containers.

She didn’t look at me. “Who?”

“That boy by the sari-sari store. The one with the skateboard.”

She made a small sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re too young to be watching boys, Marie.”

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t watching him. I was watching the way he laughed. How loud and full it was. How his eyes lit up when he talked to his friends. That kind of joy felt foreign to me lately, like a song I couldn’t remember the lyrics to.

“I’m not watching him,” I said. “I just… noticed.”

She didn’t answer, just rinsed the spoon and placed it upside down in the rack.

That night, the rain fell hard. It beat against our windows like it was trying to get in. I curled up in bed, knees to my chest, listening to the sound of jeepneys still moving below, splashing through puddles. My phone was warm in my hand. I dialed the number I knew by heart.

Three rings. Then a click.

“Baby girl.”

His voice was everything familiar. Gentle, low. Like stepping into sunlight.

“Hi, Papa.”

“Are you okay?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You sound tired.”

“I miss you.”

A pause. “I miss you, too. I’ll be home soon. Just a few more months.”

“You said that last time.”

He laughed lightly. “And I meant it.”

I didn’t answer. There were words inside me, too many, too heavy, and I didn’t know how to shape them without crying.

“How’s your mama?”

“She’s quiet. She forgets to eat sometimes.”

“She’s strong. Stronger than she looks.”

Then, softer: “Take care of her for me, okay?”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me.

“Okay.”

Before we hung up, he said, “Sleep now. You’re my good girl, always.”

I didn’t know then how much those phone calls would become anchors. How his voice would stay in my memory longer than his face. I didn’t know that love from far away sometimes built homes in your head that didn’t always match reality.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of garlic rice and fried egg. My mother had made breakfast.

She set a plate down in front of me and said, “Your papa called me this morning.”

I glanced up. “What did he say?”

“That he loves you.”

Her voice cracked a little on that last word, but she smiled as if everything was normal.

I didn’t believe her. But I smiled back anyway.

౨ৎ

“I DIDN'T KNOW what it meant to feel forgotten, until I realized no one asked how I was anymore.”

Later that afternoon, I sat on the balcony with a bowl of lukewarm taho in my lap, watching the neighbor’s laundry sway gently like surrendering flags. The clouds above were thick and gray, threatening another downpour. There was something oddly comforting about Manila’s afternoon skies—how they always looked like they were about to cry.

I used to imagine they were crying for me.

“Don’t sit out too long,” my mother said behind the screen door. “You’ll catch a cold.”

I didn’t answer. The sweet syrup clung to my spoon and tasted faintly of childhood. Of simpler mornings. Before I understood how distance could stretch between two people in the same room. Before I realized some people leave even while staying.

“Ma?” I called after a moment.

“Yes?”

“Do you still love Papa?”

Her silence made my chest tighten.

“I mean,” I continued, “you don’t really talk about him anymore. Or smile when he calls.”

She opened the screen door but didn’t step outside. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed over her faded house dress. Her eyes were tired, and for the first time I noticed the small streaks of gray in her hair.

“Marie,” she said slowly, “loving someone isn’t always easy. Sometimes, it hurts. But that doesn’t mean it stops.”

I swallowed hard, pretending not to understand. But I did. I understood more than I wanted to.

“I think I’m just scared he’ll forget us,” I admitted, lowering my gaze. “Forget me.”

Her expression softened. “Your father works hard so you won’t have to be scared of anything.”

“But he’s never here.”

“He’s here when he can be.”

“But that’s not the same.”

She didn’t have an answer to that.

That evening, I stayed up late under my blanket, flashlight in hand, scribbling in my journal. Writing always helped me feel less alone. It was the only place where I could say exactly what I felt without being told I was too young to feel it.

Dear Diary,

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be someone else. Someone whose dad came home for dinner. Someone whose mom still danced in the kitchen. Someone who didn’t feel invisible in her own house. I miss being a kid. I miss believing everything would get better if I just stayed good enough, quiet enough, patient enough. But I’ve been all those things, and I’m still here—waiting.

The next day, I walked to school under a thin drizzle, clutching my books to my chest like they could shield me. My best friend, Carla, waved at me from under her hot pink umbrella.

“You look like a ghost,” she teased, linking her arm through mine. “Didn’t you sleep?”

“I did,” I lied.

“Well, you’re missing Christian Living first period,” she said. “Maybe that’s why you look pale. Lack of holiness.”

I laughed, a soft genuine one. Carla had a way of making things lighter.

But even as we walked into school together, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being in two places at once. Physically in Manila, mentally on the phone with a man who promised the moon but never came home. Emotionally somewhere in between—where little girls grew up quietly, between dishes and laundry, learning to live with the ache of almost.