The drive was full of déjà vu: wobbly roads, familiar decrepit buildings, new strip malls trying their best to look modern, my alma matter, quaint new cafes (where were those when I still lived here?) We passed everything I once passed daily, back when I lived in that house—for four years—before I became someone’s wife in the city. 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 the 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. As I approached the house, 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 lavish 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—actually it was so much more than that, it lasted until dinner— for your daughter’s husband simply went without saying? it made me want to give her the world. 

 When I stepped inside the house, my eight-year-old brother came running toward me, beaming, smiling with the whole of his mouth and eyes. All my hurts were smoothed away. Something about the tight little voice and delicate child-hands trying to hoist me into a hug, made my heart well up with love. There was tenderness to it. 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 in the living room, 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, bangus skin crisping. I missed this breakfast deluxe. 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. 

 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 at a standstill on the main road because someone’s cows—yes, literal cows—were wandering the road, unherded, and carefree. Peak Bulacan core. We arrived eventually. My little brother—soaked through, his shirt at the back, clinging to him like a second skin, hadn’t told us he’d been getting rained on the whole time. Why do children do this? why do they think telling anyone of their discomfort is so shameful? We asked and he just shrugged. My mom bought him a dry shirt, two sizes too big, so he won’t outgrow it too fast, she said. 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 the grown-up now, pretending not to feel emotional in a department store. After much argument, we eventually decided on pizza and pasta. The day ended there—on carbs and laughter and the familiar warmth of people who know how to annoy you with a tinge of tenderness. 

 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, face lighting up 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.