ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The random strangers and their stories; the aromatic steam from freshly brewed coffees; the old music I danced and sang to; the motes gracefully floating in the sunbeam; the gentle flapping of cloths in the clothes line; the serene morning scenes in the middle of the ricefield; the crickets telling me to go home; the AM radio dramas; the broken rubber slippers and tattered shirts; the bike rides along sugarcane trucks; the rivers and waterfalls; the mudfights; the sands between my toes; the loving souls who gave me my childhood; the mistakes and regrets; the dreams and little triumphs—they were all brought into my life, in bits and pieces, a day at a time, so I can make this book breathe and live. It’s all thanks to them, the unforgettable and fading memories that make things familiar and new.

Prologue

January 2015

I tucked the letter and the photo between the pages of her book. Closing it, I tied the string around it tightly.

They would be kept in my memory along with the ones she inked on its pages.

They brought me to a lot of places. Their journey introduced me to amazing people and brought me to him.

And they taught me about life and the helpless, hopeful kind of love.

Love…

The love she had for him and the loss that came with it. I could still feel them lingering in one corner, a soft aching reminder of a timeless journey of people who felt so much and lost more; of hope and mishaps; of forgiveness and surrender.

The tears rolled down my face and I let them.

I cried like she did sixty years ago.

I cried for the man she never had, the dreams they never got to see realized.

I cried for the man I love but couldn’t have, the journey he took with me and how it came to an end.

If only things turned out right for both of us, tears would not stain the pages of this book.

If only…

Chapter 1

“I find that being nice is not always easy. With some people, it’s a task that I end up weary. But with him, it is spontaneous.”

From Corazon’s Diary

Three months ago…

She passed away and I felt nothing. I should have, I know, but I didn’t know her. She was just a name I often heard when my mother was still alive and a name forgotten when she failed to show up at her daughter’s wake and funeral in Makati.

My father never spoke of her again and I never questioned as part of a family tradition, ‘Never question thy father’.

My grandmother, or Mama as what my mother dearly called her, passed away alone in her home.

Alone. Like how she had been since she cut ties with my mother.

Alone.

My father shared the news while we were having breakfast, of all moments. As respect for the lady, I didn’t make any comment on how I felt nothing or how much we had to send for the funeral.

Instead, I asked the more acceptable and courteous question. “What’s the plan?” Surely, there had to be one.

My father shrugged his shoulders. “They’ve had the wake for almost a week now. We’ll go for the funeral.”

Crossing your fingers was a myth, after all. “We?”

He looked at me, the slit eyes he got from his Chinese heritage free of emotion. I knew he wasn’t fond of my grandmother. If he were, I would have known her.

Growing up, the walls in our home were never thick enough. Stories would float to my ears if I pressed them just right and closed my eyes.

My grandparents were the reason why my father had to take his wife to Manila and build a life of his own from scratch. I didn’t know about my grandfather whom I had not heard a lot about and had long passed away, but it was easy to conclude that it was my grandmother who never wanted my father for her daughter for a reason. She was the evil queen, the name being whispered by the helpers when they thought I was too young to understand.

When I got older, it was easily determined that we were cut off from my grandparents’ life. That’s how the story was being told between the helpers who filled the quiet corners of our home with whispered controversies and unwanted opinions. They particularly liked to romanticize the story of how my rich mother fought for my father, a normal orphaned boy; how he in turn built himself up for their dreams so she could regain the same life she sacrificed for him. The same stories were then passed on around the exclusive neighborhood and eventually made a full circle to me through the mouths of my school bus friends, the same ones who were enamored with stories like the classic Romeo and Juliet or one of the many Filipino television dramas of the same theme that their own nannies, the same people who started the stories, would watch every evening during supper.

My father never found out about it, and if he did, he never told anyone, but I once heard my then own nanny, Yaya Sana, berating the others for invading our family’s privacy.

I never cared, for why should I? I never met my grandparents. For most of the people in our neighborhood, children and their nannies alike, they were the evil king and queen of my parents’ romance. I had the same belief as them, and because of that, I dreamed of the same love like my parents, one that crossed vast oceans and mountains. One that was endless although short-lived. That was until I grew up and realized that kind of love was easily hoped for than stumbled upon.

“We’re the only family she had left,” my father said, drawing me away back to the present. “It’s our responsibility.”

Sad to know he was doing it out of responsibilit y, right? But what else could he say? My father was a man of truth. He would never lie to temporarily ease your pain.

If truth hurts, then find the reason instead of wallowing in it. Learn from it and build a new version of the truth . That was his motto and I lived by it as well.

I cleared my throat and tucked my black locks behind one ear. I nonchalantly asked, “When do you plan to go?”

“We fly tomorrow.”

My eyes widened in surprise and I almost choked down my food. “I won’t have enough time to settle things in the cafés,” I tried to explain.

“You have things running smoothly for the past few months. Your chains can take care of themselves.”

That was the end of our conversation.

No tears were shed.

Plans were made faster than eating a spoonful of fried rice and scrambled eggs.

We would be bound to Bacolod City in about twenty-four hours.

🌳🌳🌳

I never thought of packing for a three-day stay in Bacolod until it was 6 o’clock in the evening. Friends from everywhere in Makati kept on pinging messages to my phone, inviting me everywhere there was life in the city.

In the Philippines, Makati is the Big Apple. Lights never go down; people are always on the go. And I loved it. I breathed its toxic air like caffeine every morning, excited for the challenges ahead.

And at night, I’d get drunk within its city lights, hopping from one bar to another to spend as much as I wanted because I deserved it and I earned it.

Meeting men was easy and flirting was a matter of mutual transaction with the right boundaries for safety.

Keeping a relationship was a little challenging, but it gets better if you could learn to reserve more for yourself and give only a spare amount of your time, effort and energy for the partner. Not all men were like my father. Not all of them could love one woman even after her death. And not all women were Stephanie Sy—wise, confident, proud, fun and difficult.

I kept a small circle of very close friends and those I held dear I replied to that evening.

I would not be available until next week so they better find someone else to give life to the party. I had an important business to settle out of town.

Never had I told them I would be going to a completely different place, to a province that speaks another language and to my mother’s beloved city I never had the chance to visit.

🌳🌳🌳

We left at three in the morning to escape traffic.

My father was busy checking his phone for e-mails and text messages. I was doing the same. I had to make sure that everything would be going smoothly in my chain of coffee shops, especially the one I just opened two months ago.

When we lined up to check-in for our flight, it dawned on me that I would soon land in a place where everything is different. I had done this multiple times in the past. I had traveled to far flung places both for business and pleasure, but this was the first I noticed things around me while checking in.

Behind me was a woman talking on the phone in Hiligaynon, the local language of Bacolod. She was carrying a large bag made out of straw and an LV satchel, most definitely an imitation.

In front of me was an old man with two large boxes with holes around them and I thought I heard chicken sounds.

Oh my God , I thought. I swear to God, that man had to check-in that box or I’d throw a fit.

I never knew a lot about Bacolod.

I heard stories of the place from my mother, back when she was still lively and healthy, but most of my friends weren’t even aware of the place. And from what I gathered from memory, it is a place that produces a lot of sugar—the sugar bowl of the Philippines, as they say.

I only wished that my grandmother maintained her renowned elegant lifestyle until the very end. Her hometown better have stable electricity, internet and air conditioners. And dry, clean tiled bathrooms.

“You grew up in Bacolod, right?” I asked my dad. We decided to stay in a coffee shop as we waited for our flight.

He nodded, his eyes still focused on his phone.

“How come you never talked about it?” I had to make conversation. We still had two hours to waste.

“It’s a great place.”

“And?”

For a moment I thought he would brush me off and end it right there, but he stopped and lifted his head to look at me. My father, a man who rarely smiled, had that reminiscing look on his face as he said, “I loved it. Your mom and I did.”

“And?”

“You know we had to leave for a better life.”

I pretended as though I haven’t the heard stories. “I thought she had a great life there?”

“She did.” He nodded and his face turned grim. “I didn’t.”

I didn’t say another word for a few more minutes.

“What was she like?” I finally asked. I wanted to know. I wanted to know the woman whom my mother loved so much and my father learned to despise in his own way. He might not have told my mother or me, but the snide comments were enough proof.

“Who?” I knew he knew who I was talking about.

“Wawa,” I said. My mother had always told me to refer to the woman as Wawa. I didn’t know why. I never even used that term for years.

“She was a great woman to many. A great teacher to her students. She loved your mother very much.”

No, she didn’t , I answered in my mind. She would have been in our lives if she did. “But you hate her, don’t you?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “I hated her for years. But I’m also thankful to the woman.”

I was confused. “Why?”

Dad shrugged. “She drove me to be who I am today.”

“How come she never visited us?”

Again, my father shrugged. His slit eyes were hooded with his thick brows. “I don’t have any idea. Maybe she didn’t want to see me.”

“And me?”

He shook his head. “No, she always loved to hear from you. She was just too proud to admit it. She used to call your yaya to ask after you.”

“Yaya Sana?” I asked in disbelief. My nanny never told me she had been talking to my grandmother.

“Those two had their own world. I don’t even know what they had been talking about. I overheard them talking on the phone one time but that’s all.”

I nodded. My grandmother was a proud woman. The fact that she never reached out to us all these years was proof enough. She was too proud, she didn’t even want to talk to her own granddaughter. Except her nanny. Great.

🌳🌳🌳

I spent the hour-long-or-so flight sleeping on the plane. I had to reserve my energy to face the unknown. I couldn’t imagine myself riding through rocky roads, smelling animal dung while surrounded by the sound of another language, one of at least 171 spoken in the Philippines.

My mother tried to teach me Ilonggo or Hiligaynon but after she died, I never used it again. I only used Tagalog, or Filipino, the national language of the country and the one being used in Manila.

Now that I’d thought of it, both my dad and I ceased speaking the language when mom passed. The sweet, sing-song tone of the language reminded me so much of my mother. There even came a time when I didn’t want Yaya Sana to speak because she had that inherent accent in her. My father was a great speaker and when he spoke the Tagalog language, you wouldn’t get any idea he grew up using a different one. It took me months to get used to not hearing the dialect at home and it helped overcome the longing I had for my mother.

At the final descend, I looked out the window and a slight feeling of dread came to me. There was green everywhere. I had been in enough airports around the world to hope that we would eventually be headed to a city with far better amenities.

By the time we touched down, the Hiligaynon dialect surrounded us as natives took out their phones to call whoever was waiting for them outside. Imagine people talking in a sing-song voice. I remembered my mother talking the way the woman behind me did. Then I realized it didn’t hurt anymore. It was just that familiar longing again.

After we collected our luggage and loaded them in the cart, we walked out the glass doors of the small airport. It was quite an honest surprise that the airport looked contemporary—or at least it tried to be, because it was decent enough. When we landed earlier, I knew what I was expecting when we stepped outside. Green. Nothing, but green.

I expected a more rural feel before we landed, conditioned myself for it, actually. But it somehow felt different now that I was standing on its ground. Perhaps it was because there were vehicles of different kinds, ones you would usually see in Manila, lining up to wait for passengers. Bacolod may not be bad, I hopefully thought to myself as I watched one car after another pass by before us as we waited for our ride.

Yaya Sana went back to Bacolod three years ago to take care of her nieces and nephews. And when I saw her climb out of the white van that stopped in front of us, I ran to her and gave her a big hug. Despite what I found out about her secret with my grandmother, she was still one of the few women I truly loved. She was my second mother and most of all she was the only person who knew me well enough to give me a piece of her mind. Even my dad couldn’t compete with her, as he often claimed until now.

“Yaya, I missed you,” I said with a laugh. “You got… oh my God, how much weight did you put on?”

She laughed heartily and said, “When you get a taste of Bacolod food, you will understand why.” She patronized Bacolod cuisine but ironically, she couldn’t cook them.

My father greeted her saying, “Sana, I thought the airport is in Bacolod?” He had that frown of confusion on his face.

“They transferred it here in Silay, sir,” Yaya Sana explained.

“I wish I understand what you’re talking about,” I uttered.

“Silay is two cities away from Bacolod,” she explained, still talking in Hiligaynon. And then she realized that she was and she covered her mouth. “Sorry,” she apologized, looking at me.

I laughed. “It’s okay, Yaya. You’re free to speak Hiligaynon. I can manage,” I said with a wink. I gave her another hug, trying to keep myself from shedding tears. I never realized how much I missed her until I smelled her familiar scent.

“Let’s go?” My father asked, speaking in Hiligaynon as well. I was stupefied. I never heard him use the language since my mother died. “Where’s the driver?”

At that moment, a tall man came into view and I must say, he didn’t look like a driver to me because he was too ruggedly handsome to be one but I assumed he was because he held out his hand to my father. “Welcome to Negros, sir. And condolence,” he added.

My father nodded and briefly shook his hand.

My smile faded and my mood changed. I was not used to strangers.

“This is Erik. Erik, meet Stephanie and Sir Carlo.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Sy,” he said with a smile, his bristled chin morphing to accommodate the stretch of his lips as he held out his hand. Should I take it? The question passed my mind for a split second before I did what was polite. I extended my hand and slightly brushed his palm, pulling away before he could close his grip around it. I put on my sunglasses and pretended to take interest in the passing car behind him.

I saw the handsome driver and Yaya Sana share a look. She just shrugged and gently pushed him toward our cart.

“That’s mine,” I said in haste as he started to lift my mustard suitcase out of the cart. “Be careful with it.”

“Yes, ma’am!” he said, his playful tone almost mocking. His wide grin made the well-hidden innocent, gullible part of me want to smile back but I held my lips tight. I didn’t want him to get the wrong impressions.

I watched as he loaded the rest of our luggage at the back of the van. When he started to walk to circle to the driver side, I said, “The door?” with my eyebrow arched high.

“You serious?” he asked with a scoff, looking at me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

Well, no, not really. I could open the damn door myself. I just wanted to be the brat today.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Yaya Sana told him as she pulled the door open.

I climbed in and was greeted with the cool air of the air conditioner.

“You’re too harsh on him,” Yaya Sana whispered after she closed the door, tone berating.

“I am always harsh on people I don’t know,” I answered, turned to her and smiled. “They have to prove themselves first.”

The lady just shook her head.

Chapter 2

“When I’m with him, I forget the dreams I was taught to reach for because he teaches me how to give things a second glance and realize they are what I needed after all.”

From Corazon’s Diary

“We are now leaving Silay city,” Yaya Sana explained after we passed through different ancient Spanish houses.

Merely a few minutes later, she spoke again. “This is Talisay. It’s a small city, but it’s nice.” I looked out the window. She bet it was small. It took us only five minutes to drive through it before we reached Bacolod.

To give Bacolod credit, there were a lot of green fields, one that you could no longer find in Makati. And their roads were wide—I give them that.

“This is Robinson’s Mall.” Yaya Sana pointed to the right.

I just nodded. It was probably the second biggest structure I saw since we started our drive. Yes, there were no buildings taller than fifteen floors which was a BPO building right before we passed the mall. I checked my watch. It was eight in the morning.

“Where’s the traffic?” I asked.

“You won’t find it here,” Erik answered in Tagalog. He said it with that same Hiligaynon tone. I did not bother telling him he could freely speak his native tongue. “Here in Bacolod, the jeepneys fight over commuters.”

“That’s a joke, right?” I asked Yaya Sana.

She shook her head and laughed.

In Makati, I often see people lining up for a jeepney ride, a common public transport in the Philippines.

“This is what I miss the most in Bacolod,” my father spoke for the first time after he climbed on the passenger side.

“And is one of the reasons why I never left,” Erik told him. “I heard you’re into the food industry, sir,” he said, an obvious conversation starter.

I rolled my eyes. I’d heard that several times when common people wanted to talk to my father, hoping for a chance to be showered with his generosity.

It was surprising though that he knew a lot about the business.

“Stephanie actually has a chain of coffee shops around Manila,” my dad said with pride.

“Really?” Erik glanced at me through the rearview mirror. I did not answer but I did look away. His interested gaze bothered me.

“It’s sad you never knew your Wawa,” Yaya Sana said to me in a whisper.

“Yeah,” I said, not certain if I agreed or not.

“She was a good lady despite everything. If there’s one wrong I have to point out, it’s her pride. She was one, big proud woman.” She turned to give me a meaningful smile. “You got that trait from her, you know.”

Ignoring her last statement, I said in a low voice, “I heard you talked to her often.” My father was deep in conversation with the driver.

Yaya Sana looked at me with guilt. “Yes. She would pretend to call to ask about petty things and in passing she would asked after you. I asked her many times if she wanted me to hand the phone over to you, especially after your mother passed away but she wouldn’t. She never said it, but I sensed she was afraid you hated her for not seeing you before.”

“She should’ve at least tried,” I said with bitterness. I never had pictures taken with her, never had the chance to actually use the name ‘Wawa’ to call her, never had that normal childhood spoiled by my own grandparents.

Before Yaya Sana could say a word, the van stopped. Curious, I looked out the window. “Why are we stopping?”

“We’re here,” Yaya Sana explained, pointing at the building.

I looked up and saw the big sign, Rolling Hills Memorial Chapels. I heard my father take a deep breath as Erik climbed out. Yaya Sana opened the door and waited until I decided it was time to face this.

It’s just for three days , I told myself. Then it’s back to normal.

There was no sticky air outside. It was a nice morning apart from the fact that we were standing outside a memorial chapel.

We let Erik guide us inside the gloomy building. My grandmother’s wake was held inside a spacious room and I was very surprised to see a lot of people inside.

Heads turned, their expressions those of curiosity. Apart from Yaya Sana, I didn’t know anyone. I could count Erik as someone I knew, but he was just the driver. He didn’t play a big role in the occasion.

Words of us being Wawa’s closest family eventually spread across the room. People started to come forward, offering their condolences and all I had to do was give them a small smile.

I thought I needed to escape and in my black dress, I walked to the front of the room where a bronze coffin stood, covered with flowers. Three stands of Mass Cards stood in one corner. The carpeted floor silenced my footsteps. Just before I reached the rectangular bronze box that held my grandmother inside, I stopped and searched for Yaya Sana. She was right behind me, like she always was in the past. Her face was solemn. I held out my hand and she took it like she used to whenever I was afraid. Like that first time when I went to school, my first day in high school, my first plane ride—all my firsts, including this one.

Together, we made the last few steps toward my grandmother and when I saw her face, I had to turn away. I didn’t want to remember her in that lifeless state. I saw pictures of her and I wanted that stern face etched in my memory, not this. I never knew her. To me, she was a stranger, so at least I wanted to preserve her living look in my mind and not someone I saw inside a coffin.

Tears of regret flowed as Yaya Sana guided me to a nearby seat. Regret of never reaching out to my grandmother. Regret of never even thinking about her. Regret of not sending even a simple Christmas card. Regret of not knowing her birth date. She never made an effort to reach out to me. Shouldn’t have I done what she couldn’t do?

I mentally shook my head. I didn’t want to think of anyone to blame for what we had become. It could have been my father’s fault or it could have been my mother’s. It could have been mine and it could have been my grandmother’s or my grandfather’s.

When I finally had my emotions checked, I looked around the room. I did not mind the stare of the crowd. I found my father at the back, talking with a couple who seemed the same age as him and I found Erik drinking a cup of coffee just a few feet away from them. I looked away when our eyes met.

🌳🌳🌳

My father easily made a circle of companions, people who looked like they were part of the high society as well. I, on the other hand, had no one but Yaya Sana to take care of me. She gave me lunch from the buffet table and watched as I ate.

“Your father arranged for the two of you to sleep in your grandparents’ ancestral home.”

My eyes widened. “I was hoping to stay in a hotel.”

“It’s peak season. The Masskara Festival is underway. You don’t know how many tourists turn up during this time of year.”

“I don’t know, it’s creepy.” I grimaced at the thought of sleeping under the roof of my grandparents whom I never had the chance to meet before they passed away. “I was really hoping to get into a decent hotel where there was free Wi-Fi and efficient service.

Yaya Sana held my hand. “Don’t think that way.”

“I don’t know the place, Yaya. I don’t feel safe.”

“This child,” she said, shaking her head. “The compound is a safe place. And Erik will be staying the night to watch over us.”

I frowned. “You trust him that much?”

“I trust him with my life, child. He’s been around the family since he was a child. I watched him grow up to be a fine man.”

My head turned to where Erik was standing. If I didn’t know, I would have mistaken him to be one of the guests. He didn’t dress like one and he felt comfortable to be surrounded by people who dressed in pretty clothes. He was confident. But then, as Yaya Sana said, he grew up around the family. He was used to it, I concluded.

“You cut your hair. It’s nice,” Yaya Sana praised, stroking my hair which went down just below my shoulders. I remembered she used to braid it when I was young. “What have you been doing? Tell me.”

I told her about how my business was growing, my new friends, my new car, my ex-boyfriend named Greg, my ex-best friend who cheated with Greg, my new collection of shoes…I told her about everything new.

Yaya Sana was still in shock with what happened between me and Greg. “Don’t worry,” she finally said when she got over it. “There’s someone who will show you what real love is.”

I laughed at that. As I grew older, I realized that real love was scarce. I had been around enough men in bars and social events to realize that nothing lasted for them. Greg had been fun but he was not such a big loss. He was just like every man I had ever met—a great disappointment.

“Maybe you can find one here,” Yaya Sana joked.

“Yeah, right. And then I’ll live here?” I huffed. “No way.”

“You’ve never experienced Negros, my dear. Once you do, you’ll never want to go back to the busy life of Manila.”

“I love the busy life. I live for it.”

She looked at me as if she knew something I didn’t. “If you say so.”

🌳🌳🌳

If it was any other ordinary day, I would have already gotten a ticket back to Makati. But it was a day of grieving and I had to at least act like I was.

“Are you ready to go?” Erik was standing before me. I didn’t notice him approaching, too busy with my phone.

“What made you think I want to leave?”

“You’ve been on your phone for almost an hour now,” he pointed out, still talking in Tagalog.

“I’m just busy.”

“And?”

I was getting irritated. He was acting too cool for a driver. Why couldn’t he just wait when I was ready to leave? Wasn’t it his job?

“And I want to be alone?”

He placed his hands in his pockets and shrugged, “Fine,” and then walked away.

“Impossible,” I murmured, my attention back on my phone. I had to call my new manager to see how she was doing. “Joan, how are things?”

“Everything’s fine, Miss Steph. A lot of customers today.”

“That’s good. Make sure you stock well. I’ve called the suppliers. They’ll deliver in a day.”

“I think we’ll have enough until a few more days.”

I also called my secretary to keep things under control in the office. I didn’t want to go home to a mess. But knowing her, I knew that I was in good hands. I handpicked her after a month of waiting for the perfect one and she was nearly perfect.

When I had no more excuse to use my phone, I stood up and went to my father. He was still talking to the old couple whom he introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Luzuriaga. “Dad, I want to go home and rest for a while. Can you manage alone?”

Of course he said yes. Despite his relationship with my grandmother, he was having a good time with some of the locals, most of whom businessmen like him.

Yaya Sana was busy serving guests so I decided to search for the driver on my own.

It was already dark outside. I found him outside, talking with two other guys. “I’m ready to go,” I announced, haughtily holding my chin high.

“Sure,” he said after he took a good look at me. Without another word spoken, I walked straight to the van parked in front of the memorial chapel.

“Where are you going?” I heard Erik ask a few feet away. His right hand was holding a set of keys and he was standing outside a large black pick-up truck.

“Aren’t we using the van?”

“Manang Sana and the others will need that later. We’ll use this.” Manang is the respectful Hiligaynon term used to call older women.

“How about my things?”

He sighed and strode to the back of the van. He opened it. “Well?” his brows rose in question. “Aren’t you going to grab your suitcase?”

My mouth fell open. He expected me to do what? “Why? Isn’t it your job?”

“Hey, lady, I’m just the driver here.”

I scoffed in disbelief.

“Believe it,” he said as if he heard my thoughts. He stepped aside to give way for me.

I grumpily pulled my suitcase out and dropped it on the ground.

“Careful. You’ll still need it.”

“Yeah, right,” I snapped, struggling with the handle. He went back to the pick-up truck and climbed in. I gaped after him in disbelief. How was I supposed to load my suitcase onto that thing? It was over six feet high! Did my grandmother use this vehicle? She would have needed a ladder just to climb on it.

Angry, I knocked on the tinted window. It slid down and his amused face stared at me.

“I can’t load this thing on my own,” I said, kicking the suitcase with my high heels.

“Move aside,” he said.

“What?”

“You want me to help you load it up, right?”

“So?”

“So, move aside so I can open the door and get out.”

I tiny growl escaped my lips. I was too frustrated to even shout. He laughed and climbed out the driver seat.

“This is not that heavy,” he said as he bent down to lift my suitcase. “Open the door.”

I couldn’t believe this man. He had the nerve to order me around! When I didn’t move, he shrugged and threw the suitcase at the open rear of the truck.

“My father will hear of this!”

“I’d be happy to hear what he has to say, Malfoy,” he answered. The bastard had read Harry Potter. Great. Before I could open the back door, he added, “Don’t even think about it.”

“What now?”

“Get in the passenger side.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re my only passenger and I don’t drive with one passenger sitting at the back.”

“You’re a freaking driver.”

“You want to drive?” he challenged.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I truly couldn’t comprehend it. None of our drivers back home dared to treat us this way. Was this man feeling entitled just because he grew up with the family?

“If you want to go, find another driver. I’m sure those guys are willing to drive you around.” He motioned his head to the two men he was chatting with earlier. I looked at them looking at me and I stomped my way to the passenger side of the pick-up truck. “Now, that was not so difficult, was it?”

I did not say another word. He started the engine and backed out of the parking lot. He reached out and turned on the music. It was jazz. A fine selection, I noted.

“You want to grab dinner first?”

“No, I want to get out of this truck as soon as possible, please.”

“Fine.”

We drove through the wide roads of Bacolod. I didn’t imagine the streets to be that wide, honestly. I thought it would be narrower and—well, rocky. I found the sidewalks nice as well.

“This is Lacson street,” Erik finally broke the silence.

“I didn’t ask.”

“During Masskara Festival, the whole road is closed for three days. Street parties and everything,” he continued to explain, not hearing me. “And as you can see, restaurants line up all the way to Lagoon. Most of them local ones except for a few.”

“I want to rest. A little silence will help.”

He threw me a mischievous grin. “You don’t like me, do you?”

“You just figured that out?” I asked sarcastically.

“No, I’m not just used to people not liking me,” he said with pride.

“It’s easy not to. Trust me.”

“Lola Cora told me about you, you know.”

Lola Cora. Not Ma’am Cora. Just who does this guy think he is?

But then his words sank in and that one surprised me. “What’s there to tell? We never even met.”

“Even when two people have never met, it doesn’t mean they don’t have a story together.”

I rolled my eyes. “Which part of the bible did you take that from? Or is that from Harry Potter?”

He chuckled but did not answer.

A few moments of silence later, I couldn’t help but ask, “What did she say?”

“Who?” It was obvious he knew what I was trying to ask.

“My grandmother. What did she say about me?”

“That you’re arrogant and prideful like her.” He glanced at my direction before adding, “And that you are beautiful.”

I didn’t want to hear another word about my grandmother from this guy. I didn’t know him and I didn’t trust him despite Yaya Sana’s words.

And did Yaya Sana tell my grandmother I was arrogant and prideful? Because where else would she get that information from?

We travelled for a few minutes, passing the Lagoon and circling the Bacolod plaza where the cathedral was located just across the street. Five more minutes of driving without traffic, we reached my grandparents’ ancestral home. It was similar to the ones I saw in Silay. It was big and spacious. And of course, creepy. It had a freaking big fountain in the middle of the driveway! And then there were those lion statues standing old at the bottom of the front steps, some of them had parts chipped away.

I knew my grandfather came from old money, but I never realized he settled down with the old family home as well.

“Oh God,” I moaned under my breath.

Chapter 3

“Most nights I talk to her like I did when I read them their favorite tales. I tell her things I can never say to anyone. I write these entries pretending this book is her very soul, as if telling a tale that she will someday tell her children. But that will never happen, will it? So I just write. I just tell.”

From Corazon’s Diary

Erik climbed out and I followed, never expecting him to open the door for me. He took my suitcase from the back of the truck and left it on the ground.

“Unbelievable bastard,” I grumbled as I pulled my luggage and fell into steps behind him. A lady appeared at the door as we climbed the five steps of the porch. She was smiling and she was old.

“Hija, welcome to Bacolod. I’m sorry to meet you in this circumstance,” she said, holding on to my arm.

“Manang June, meet Stephanie. Stephanie, this is Manang June. She had been your grandmother’s lady companion ever since she married Lolo Ramon.”

“She’s like a big sister to me,” Manang June said with tears in her eyes. “Why don’t we come inside? I’ll show you to your room. It had been your mother’s before she left.”

“We haven’t had dinner yet, Manang,” Erik announced as we entered the house.

I was not hearing him. I was too busy looking around the place I should have been at years ago. I should have grown up here during the summers. I should have been familiar with it. I should have ruined those damned lions outside with my childish plays. Heck, I should have been able to swim in that humongous fountain.

It was my mother’s home before she married and left for Manila. I should have been here.

“Come, hija, I’ll show you to your room.” Manang June took my hand. “Leave that suitcase there. I’ll take it to your room later. Erik, hijo, there’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Now that’s what you call dinner,” Erik said with a big smile as he found his way to the kitchen at the back of the house.

Manang June led me to the wooden staircase that concaved to the left.

“Thank you for this, Manang,” I said as we climbed.

“Don’t thank me. It’s nothing.”

When we reached the top of the stairs, I saw a big portrait of a serious-looking young man hanging on the wall.

“That’s your grandfather.”

I nodded. This house was where he grew up.

The second floor had a long hallway.

“We have seven rooms here. To the right are the master bedroom and two others that belonged to your mother, Ma’am Othella, and Christina. But those two mostly shared your mother’s room. Christina didn’t like spending the nights alone.”

I frowned. I have not heard that name before. Who is Christina?

Before I could ask the question aloud, Manang June continued. “To the left are four other rooms, one was turned into a library, the other two for guests and the last one is mine. Come this way.” She gently led me to the right corridor and stopped at the first door to the right. “This was your mother’s. It has never been rearranged since she left. But I prepared it for you. Just don’t open the closet. I haven’t gotten to cleaning it yet.” She opened the door and I was awed at what I saw. It was huge. A big four-poster bed was at the center. Two large windows let in the fresh night air and a wooden sliding door opened to the balcony. A big, mahogany closet stood at one corner and a dressing table was opposite to the bed. Old perfumes and hair brushes laid on it. I walked inside, my heels clicking against the polished wooden floor. The Spanish era at its best, I thought with awe.

“I hope you’ll find it sufficient,” Manang June said.

“Thank you,” I uttered in a trance.

“I’ll leave you for now. I’ll bring your things up.”

🌳🌳🌳

It was a relief that the bathroom was not as old as the house. If it were, I didn’t know how I could have managed.

As I was checking my phone for text messages, a knock came to my door.

I turned away from the window where the best reception was, saying, “Coming,” but the door swung open before I even reached it to reveal Erik with my mustard suitcase.

“Who told you you can just open the door?” I demanded.

“I thought you said come in .”

“I said, coming .”

He shrugged. He saw me look at my suitcase and he said, “I can’t believe you would have allowed an old lady to carry this up the stairs for you,” he said with a shake of his head.

Doing my best to stay in a fine mood, I smiled and pulled the suitcase from his hand. “Thank you. Please be assured that we ladies in this house appreciate a gentleman such as yourself.”

He just looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

I closed the door at his face, gently like a woman with breeding should.

With my suitcase now at my possession, I dressed in a comfortable pair of pajamas.

I took out my laptop only to realize too late that there was no internet. I left my pocket Wi-Fi at home and now I regretted it. My phone’s internet was not doing good either so I gave up after a few minutes. I had to wait to get the reports from my managers tomorrow, I guess.

Without anything to do, I decided to roam around the place. It was not as dark and gloomy as I had imagined ancestral homes to be. In fact, it was pleasant and bright inside. When I stepped out of my room, I was tempted to go to the farthest door at the end of the corridor. It was the master bedroom, I was sure of it. On my way, I found the other room, probably owned by Christina, whoever she might be. But it was locked. I shrugged and slowly, with bare feet, I made my way to the master bedroom and tried the door. Again, it was locked.

Disappointed, I went downstairs and heard heavy laughter. It was Erik’s, I was sure of it.

“Can you imagine? She even expected me to open the door for her!”

Manang June’s amused look turned pale when she saw me walk in the dining room. She immediately turned around and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Were you talking about me behind my back?”

Erik almost choked down his food. “Of course—” he gulped down a glass of water “—I was.”

I rolled my eyes at him and followed Manang June inside. “Manang,” I called. “Do you know where I can find the key to the door at the end of the corridor?”

“It’s your grandparents’ room. You want to see it?” She looked confused.

I nodded. “I’m curious.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“What about the room beside my mother’s?”

“Oh, it has been locked for years. No one really enters that room. I’ll look for the key tomorrow if you want.”

“No, that’s okay, Manang. I guess the master bedroom is enough.”

“Wait here while I get the key.”

“I’ll come with you.”

I followed her out of the kitchen, threw Erik a look, and walked up the staircase with Manang June.

“Don’t mind Erik. He’s just playing with you. He’s a great kid.”

“You’re the second one to tell me that.”

“It’s true. His parents are wonderful people as well.”

“Then what happened to him?” I couldn’t help but ask.

The woman laughed, shaking her head. “Wait here while I get the key.”

Manang June was back from her room in less than a minute. She was holding an old key which she handed to me.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said and walked to the right corridor.

I had second thoughts as I stood outside my grandmother’s room. I never knew her so I didn’t know if she would be bothered if I entered the room. I had the key in my hand and Manang June was not hesitant to give it to me so I assumed it was okay. I worked with the key and opened the door. It was almost the same as mine, just bigger. There was a walker at the foot of the bed and an open book on one of the pillows. No one touched this room after she passed away.

I went inside and walked to the dresser. If you ever want to know anything about a woman, go to her dresser.

My eyes watered when I saw framed photographs of my mother on that dresser. She was just about sixteen when it was taken. My grandmother’s photo together with my grandfather stood beside it. She looked radiant and beautiful in her younger days. Very feminine and definitely very Filipina. My mother must have inherited her features from my grandfather because she didn’t look anything like my grandmother. Well, maybe except her pointed nose which I also got.

Slowly, I sat down on the stool. I watched my reflection on the mirror. Shoulder-length black hair, slit eyes, decent lips, pointed nose. I could say I was pretty, but not entirely beautiful as Erik said my grandmother claimed. I looked away, afraid of anything that might appear behind me in the mirror. Stupid, I know, but the room was creepy enough.

I looked down and opened a drawer. I saw more photographs. I didn’t know how much time I spent just looking through those black-and-white photos of people whom I barely knew. I found one with three people on it. A woman and two men. The woman looked like my grandmother, just way younger. And she was fighting a laugh as she stared directly at the camera. The other man was standing beside her, arms around her. He was whispering something in my grandmother’s ear, half of his face blocked by her hair. The other man stood beside the first one, on hand on his hip, looking up at the tree that stood beside them, his face shadowed by his hand over his eyes, shielding them against the sun as though he found the tree more interesting that the camera pointed at them. The one with his arm around my grandmother was probably my grandfather, I thought.

I flipped the photo over. Words were written on it.

Don Salvador, October 25, 1953.

I set the photo apart from the rest, placing it on top of the drawer.

I closed the first drawer with the other photos inside and opened another. That was when I found it.

There was nothing else inside but a tiny, red leather-bound book. It was just lying there with a string to keep it closed. I took it in my hand and I felt something weird. I knew what it was the moment I saw it and I desperately wanted to pull the string and leaf through every page.

I was holding in my hand the very life story of my grandmother, the woman I never knew.

I found her diary.

Chapter 4

“There are things I wish never happened. He is never one of them.”

From Corazon’s Diary

I didn’t know what I should do. Should I put it back inside that drawer? Should I read it?

I looked around, expecting someone to be watching me.

Alone in that room, without anyone to see me, I could do anything. So I chose to close the drawer and take the diary. I wouldn’t read it tonight. I would just keep it safe.

I grabbed the photo as well.

As I exited my grandmother’s room, I saw Erik reach the top of the steps. He saw me as I closed the door. “Hey,” he beamed. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing you should know,” I answered, arching my brow.

He shrugged and turned to the left corridor.

“Where are you going?”

He frowned. “To my room. I need to rest as well.”

“Your room?”

“Do you have a problem if I was given a room here? Would you prefer I sleep outside with the dogs?”

“Is that possible?”

“You wouldn’t want to hear me bark,” he teased.

I grimaced at the thought. I walked to my room without a word and locked myself in. How come he was given a room upstairs? Well, Manang June had one. Maybe he was given the other room in case he was needed during an emergency when Wawa was still alive.

I walked to the bed that once belonged to my mother and looked at the diary in my hand. A big part of me wanted to read it. Another said that it was not right. My grandmother was to be buried the day after tomorrow.

My eyes went to the photo. She looked so happy. What had changed, then? Or did things change? Was I wrong? Did I paint a different picture of my grandmother in my head?

A knock on the door pulled me back from my thoughts.

“Stephanie, it’s Dad.”

I went and unlocked the door. The door creaked open. I saw my father enter and stop after a few paces. He looked around. “I’ve been here twice, you know.”

I settled back unto the bed. “In this room?”

He nodded. “When your mother and I married, we stayed here for a day. And then we were gone.”

I desperately wanted to ask him what happened, to tell me the whole story, but I was afraid. I was afraid to know that my grandmother had been cruel to my father. If possible, I wanted to be left in the dark on that matter.

“What’s that?” He motioned at the diary in my hand.

“It’s nothing.” I nonchalantly placed the book to the side, over the photo like it was a journal I brought at the National Bookstore. “Notes for work. Why did you come back? I thought you were having a good time?”

He smiled. “I knew Mr. and Mrs. Luzuriaga years back. They’ve been my mentors.”

“In what?”

“Business, of course. I used to work for them before I met your mother.”

“Ah…yes, I remember. You introduced us earlier.”

“I didn’t think you were interested,” he said when he read the slight bitterness in my tone.

“If they’re people you know, I would want to know them.”

He approached me and stroked my head. “I’ll introduce you tomorrow.”

I gave him a sweet smile of thanks.

“Go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

🌳🌳🌳

Tomorrow came so fast. I didn’t know how that it would be the day that I had to prove myself. In line with the funeral which had to happen the day after, I was given the task to look for a good catering service, prepare the venue and deliver the eulogy.

Of course, I complained about everything.

“Why me?” We were back in speaking Tagalog.

“You’re your Wawa’s only grandchild. At least, make people believe that you care.”

“I do! I do care!”

“Then prove it,” my father had said.

“Can’t we just use the catering service from yesterday and today?”

“They already have a schedule for tomorrow,” Yaya Sana replied, she too speaking in Tagalog. She had that instinct whenever she was around me. Her face was blank. I knew she was disappointed in me. She wanted to see that I would gladly do anything for my grandmother. But what the hell! I didn’t even know the woman in the first place. How do I make a good eulogy?

I sighed. “How about the venue? Doesn’t the memorial chapel have something to offer?”

“Yes, but they need someone to facilitate.”

I groaned, dropping my fork on my plate. I lost my appetite.

Erik was standing by the doorway of the kitchen and I heard him stifle a laugh. I threw him a darting look. I couldn’t stand him. He was dressed in a light blue shirt and dark pants and he still looked great. However did my grandmother find a driver that hot—and irritating?

“Fine.”

I stood from my chair and left everyone in the kitchen. When I entered my mother’s former room, I spotted the red diary on the bed. Taking it with my right hand, I turned it over. With the natural light of day, it appeared to be really old. The same desire to read it came over me but I stopped myself. I had a lot of things to do.

I dressed in a sleeveless white shirt and dark pants. I paired my simple look with a pair of black pumps and my red Prada bag. I went to the dresser where I had set up my essentials and fixed my face. I didn’t need a lot of makeup but I chose to wear a dark shade of eye shadow to give my eyes some attitude. I used to hate my slit eyes. They had no creases to work with, but as time went by, I realized that people actually loved my 75% Filipino and 25% Chinese look. Thanks to my half-Chinese father, I guess.

Preparing for battle, I tightly tied my hair in a ponytail.

When I came downstairs, my father was not there.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked Yaya Sana.

“He already left. He used the van.”

“How about me?” I asked in horror.

“I’ll be at you service,” Erik announced, striding in the living room, juggling the keys.

“I think I can drive,” I told him.

He raised his eyebrow. “You think you know every nook and corner of this place?”

I gave it a second thought and sighed in surrender.

“That’s what I was talking about. Can we go now?”

He was still talking in Tagalog. Didn’t anyone tell him he could speak Hiligaynon?

“Let’s go to the memorial chapel first. I want to make sure the venue will be ready.”

“Whatever you want.” He shrugged and walked to the door. Before following him, I gave Yaya Sana a look that cried for help. She just laughed and waved me goodbye.

🌳🌳🌳

“Tomorrow at 3 PM,” I said, jotting down notes. “And the priest?”

“We have a list of recommendations if you don’t have a particular one in mind.”

“I know someone close to your Wawa,” Erik said, finally breaking his silence since we entered the office.

It was the first time I was glad he was with me. “Is he okay for tomorrow?”

He thought about it for a moment and nodded. “He’ll do this much for her. She has donated to the church every year without fail.”

“That’s settled then.”

His eyes were on my notes. “His name is Fr. Guevarra.”

I nodded and wrote down the name.

“You still have to choose what to write on the tombstone,” the lady behind the table said. “We have a list from the bible here,” she added, opening a plastic folder for me to leaf through.

“I know what she wants for her tombstone.” It was Erik again.

“You do?”

“She told me herself a few months ago.”

“What does she want?” I wanted it to be over with so it was not a problem for me even if it meant Erik was the one to give me the help I needed.

“I think she wanted it to be, ‘I laughed, I cried, I fought, I loved…and now I surrender…’.”

I was speechless for a few moments as I tried to absorb the words. I suddenly had that same feeling of longing for my grandmother, a woman I never knew but someone who talked about her death to someone like Erik.

How come she never had the courage to reach out to me? I should be the one to say everything Erik had about her. It should have been me.

“I would need you to write that down for me,” the woman behind the table said, pulling me back to the present.

Erik nodded and walked to the table. He bent down to write down the words that my grandmother shared with him.

“Are we set?” I finally asked with my composure back to normal.

“I think we are,” the lady said with a small smile. I couldn’t imagine how hard her work was. She was trying to work with clients who were grieving. Well, at least most of them were.

“Where to next?” Erik asked as we walked out the door.

“We need a catering service.”

“I know just the place.”

I scoffed in disbelief. “Of course, you do.” I looked at him with eyes that could have thrown daggers. “If you know everything, why didn’t you just volunteer earlier this morning? I don’t have to do all of this and actually do nothing.”

“Hey—” he held up both hands in defense “—I’m not family. I just happen to know your grandmother and I just happen to know a lot about this place. I’m here to help.”

He sounded sincere so I just nodded and walked to the pick-up truck. I opened the passenger side, not expecting him to suddenly be a gentleman.

🌳🌳🌳

The catering service he took me to was a house. We reached it after a short drive around Lagoon Park.

“What’s this?”

“Just follow me,” he said in his typical cheerful tone.

“What are we doing here?” I looked up at the big house in front of us.

“This is where we can find the best catering service. Come on.”

I did not immediately follow and when I did, Erik was already at the front door. A woman dressed in a servant’s uniform opened the door.

“Hi, Kat. Is Rock here?”

The petite servant nodded and stepped aside. “She’s in the kitchen.”

“This is Stephanie Sy, a friend.”

Friend ? What made him decide to name me a friend?

“Hello, ma’am. Good morning,” she greeted in Hilagaynon.

“She doesn’t speak the language,” Erik told her.

I was about to correct that but a pretty lady with disheveled hair walked into view from what appeared to be the kitchen of the large house. She walked on the tiled floor in her Crocs slippers, a pair of short shorts and a loose white shirt. “Erik! Nice to see you!” She walked toward Erik and gave him a peck. “I’m sorry. I smell of smoke.”

“I figured you were cooking?”

Rock smiled, flashing her prefect white teeth.

“By the way, this is Stephanie Sy.” Erik motioned his hand toward me.

Rock’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Gozar’s granddaughter?”

I nodded.

“I’ve heard a lot of stories about you,” she said, holding out her hand, now speaking in Tagalog. I took it but didn’t say anything. “She’s a good friend of my family.”

Again, I nodded. I was confused. How come Erik was close to almost everyone my grandmother knew? Was he more than her driver?

“Rock owns a restaurant in Bacolod, one of the best.”

“Stop flattering me.” Rock playfully punched Erik’s arm. “What can I do for you guys?”

“We’re looking for a catering service for tomorrow’s funeral. Everyone else is booked.”

Rock’s face turned from gleeful to sad. “Anything I can do for Mrs. Gozar. What time is the funeral?”

“Three in the afternoon,” I answered.

“I’ll be there. I’ll bring Mom.”

“Thanks.”

“And don’t worry about the food. You’ll love them,” she said with a wink.

“She’s one of the best cooks I know,” Erik said with pride, looking at Rock with tenderness.

There was something about these two that I just couldn’t figure out yet.

Rock led us to her office and we discussed the menu. Well, she and Erik did because I didn’t know any of the things they were talking about. All I did was listen and nod when they would both look at me with expectation.

Everything I did since that morning was all useless. Erik could have handled it and I couldn’t figure out why I had to do it. As the granddaughter, I knew I had to because it was obligatory. But if personal relationship was the standard, I would be the last anyone would think of for this task.

We were back in the truck when I finally said, “I don’t think I can go to the memorial chapel. I want to go back to the house and rest.”

Erik frowned. “It’s your grandmother’s last night before the funeral.”

I didn’t answer. I was not sure how. I honestly had no reason because I also found none to even stay there. “Dad can handle the guests. He’s good at that.”

“And I figure you’re not.” It was not a question.

I nodded. “So, can you take me to the house now?”

He didn’t answer but I realized he was driving to the direction of the road that would lead us back to my grandparents’ home.

🌳🌳🌳

Erik broke the silence after I climbed out of the truck. “At least show people you care for your grandmother.”

I sharply turned to him. I intended to say something sharp, but I couldn’t find the words. His expression was blank but I hinted a tinge of anger in his eyes.

“Why do you care so much how I behave?”

“Because unlike you, I care for your grandmother a lot.” He was standing too close to me now and I realized that my 5 feet, 5 inches height was nothing to his.

“You don’t know me enough to know I don’t care.”

“You don’t make the best effort to show that you do.”

My jaw clenched. I was angry too. I wanted to shout at him that I cared but then that would be a lie. I didn’t know my grandmother. I never developed any feelings or relationship with the lady so why was I angry? Because he said the truth?

“I never grew up with her around. I never even got the chance to call her Wawa. She was never there for me. I never even heard her freaking voice. I know all of you think she is a great lady but I don’t know her! So don’t expect me to pretend that I care for someone who made it certain she was never part of my life.”

After I said that, I walked straight to the door, opened it and slammed it shut.

🌳🌳🌳

My breathing was heavy when I reached my mother’s old bedroom. I fell on the bed and I bounced for a few times before everything became still. The only animate object in the room was the silk curtain. I watched it gently float for almost a minute. When I could no longer strain my eyes, I shifted my gaze at the diary I left lying on the bed that morning. It was just a foot away from my hand. Slowly, I moved and sat cross-legged on the bed.

I felt the edges of the leather-bound diary with my fingers. Written inside was the story of the woman I had never known. If I would just open it and read through it, I would have something to tell everyone tomorrow. I would have something for the eulogy.

Quickly, before I changed my mind, I pulled the string that held the diary close. My heart was pounding against my chest when I pulled the cover open. The first page was blank. There was still time for me to back out, close the thing and tie the strings like it had never been touched.

But I didn’t do that.

I turned the first page over and for the first time, I saw my grandmother’s neat handwriting.

Chapter 5

“Someday, someone will read these words. Will they laugh at my silliness? Will they cry at my pain? Will they learn from my mistakes?”

From Corazon’s Diary

 It was similar to the old script handwriting you would often see in classic movies. The first entry was dated March 25, 1953. I did the math. It was sixty years ago.

From what I learned in the memorial chapel, my grandmother was eighty-years-old when she died. She was born in 1934.

And this first entry was made when she was about nineteen. I couldn’t imagine my nineteen-year-old grandmother writing the very words in front of me.

March 25, 1953

I met a man today.

He is good-looking and nice. I attended the fiesta in Dumaguete with Mama and Papa.

He helped me find my way back when I found myself lost in the crowd. He asked me for a dance. I accepted against better judgment and surprisingly, it was the most magical moment of my life. He made me laugh, the first real one I had in years.

He asked me to meet him again tomorrow by the big tree outside the church. I don’t know if I should go.

His name is Antonio.

I paused with a frown on my face.

My grandfather’s name was Ramon Gozar. This was a different man.

I shrugged. Well, my grandmother was too young back then. This was probably just a fling or a passing infatuation.

As I read on, I realized that the story had more to say. It was actually getting more and more interesting.

March 26, 1953

I decided to meet Antonio. He was already sitting by the tree outside the church and he was with his friend, Ramon.

Like Antonio, Ramon is not bad to the eyes either. I didn’t like him at first sight though. He seemed stiff and unwelcoming.

His gaze told me I was not good enough for his friend.

With my grandfather’s name now in the picture, I was ready for more. I did not realize I was now on the floor, leaning my back against the bed. This was more entertaining than I first thought.

I was disappointed that the story did not continue with my grandmother, Antonio and my grandfather. It stopped for over two months and when my grandmother made another entry, it was in the month of June. She never mentioned Antonio or my grandfather.

June 19, 1953

We are back in Bacolod. Father is not happy with what I had been doing while we were on vacation.

He forced me to go back home and stay at home with my mother.

I received some visitors today. They were my friends from school and they asked me about my plans for college. I told them I want to become a doctor, but that is not really what I want. I only told them what they expected to hear.

There was another two-month gap before the next entry and this time, I started to suspect that there was something wrong.

August 15, 1953

I’m not allowed to go outside for a while.

Someone saw Antonio and I outside school today and told my father. He didn’t like it.

Antonio traveled far just to see me. He was with Ramon. They will be staying in Bacolod for a long time for their studies as well.

My father is disappointed and angry, but I cannot be happier.

I can be with Antonio!

My mind was full of questions now. What happened with my grandmother and Antonio? How did she end up with my grandfather, Ramon?

September 1, 1953

Father is still not talking to me. Is it right that I don’t care? He was disappointed that I transferred to Education. He already told his friends I will be a doctor.

I spent a long time with Antonio today so I had the time to finally forget my problems at home for a while.

That entry was followed by another and I sensed that my grandmother was in love when she wrote it.

September 28, 1953

Antonio and I went to the park today. I was afraid people would see us.

He took Ramon with him. We are just three friends hanging out together, he said. No one will ever suspect.

He gave me my first flowers.

There were countless more entries with her and Antonio and I consumed each with giddiness and I found the one where the photo was taken. It was then that I figured the one with his arm around her was Antonio. The other man standing apart from them was my grandfather.

October 25, 1953

The tree was humongous, but we managed to climb it. It stood overlooking the slopes of the mountain below us. Up ahead was another hill as high as the one we were on. In the morning, it hid behind the fog and I almost wanted to reach out and feel them. It was a piece of heaven on earth.

We took a photo under the tree this afternoon after I managed to successfully climb down.

I cannot wait to hold a copy in my hand.

The longing I have been carrying in my heart for years is slowly being replaced by a tender emotion. I truly pray it lasts forever.

Longing? Longing for what?

I barely had enough time to answer my own questions as I continued to read.

October 28, 1953

Ramon fell into the river today.

You ought to have seen his face. He was so angry that we laughed.

He was not hurt, of course.

Antonio taught me how to ride the bike and I have to hide the scratches from Papa.

There were so many Antonio and I. Pages and pages of them.

November 11, 1953

I got home very late. Papa was so angry he slapped me.

I had to keep silent and lie about the reason for my tardiness.

See, Antonio and I got lost in the middle of the sugarcane plantation.

It was the next entry after months of happiness together with Antonio that things started to get tense once again. A year had passed since the first entry by then.

April 25, 1954

I had been happy despite Papa’s attitude toward me.

I went to the church today and prayed for things to go well with Antonio and my family.

He plans to visit tomorrow.

The next entry made me feel for my grandmother.

April 27, 1954

Father didn’t like Antonio.

My mother accommodated him, but she too was tense.

Antonio said he would do everything to make my father agree to him.

My friend who is studying to become a priest came by for a visit. I cried in his arms and he told me that everything has a purpose. Nothing is always easy, but with faith, things will fall into their rightful place.

I hope he is right.

It would be another month before another entry was made and I was ready to read what happened.

May 30, 1954

I haven’t seen Antonio for a week. He had been coming to our house every day since his first visit and my father had started to talk to him.

Could it be that he had an emergency and he had to go home?

I asked Ramon at school but he too had no idea where Antonio is.

My grandmother’s heart was broken in the next entry.

June 2, 1954

Antonio visited me today.

He was crying when he said our love can never be. His parents want him to come home and marry another. I begged him to think about it but he said they would lose everything if he doesn’t marry. It was a marriage for convenience, he said.

Was I not enough, then?

Could he not fight for me like how I try to fight for him?

By the next entry, I finally understood how my grandparents became close.

September 19, 1954

My father never questioned why Antonio had stopped coming by, but I saw the knowing look in his eyes. He wanted to say, ‘I knew it,’ but never did, probably because he could see the suffering in my eyes.

Ramon is my comfort. He never failed to be beside me whenever he can.

I suspect he knew things would turn out this way, but he never said a word.

He never failed to offer his shoulder for me to cry on.

I took a moment of silence. This was bullshit. Why did she let Antonio do that to her?

I had to calm myself before I continued reading.

October 5, 1954

Antonio showed up at school today.

I wanted to run away but Ramon was there to stop me. He said that Antonio wants to talk.

I don’t want to write everything we talked about but know that I finally understood his decisions.

Our love is not meant to be. Too much was at stake—his parents’ livelihood, his siblings’ future, and the people who depended on their family’s farm… There was no way out of the marriage.

Antonio said that we should write each other a letter and we will read them together sixty years from now.

Surely we will both be healed by then.

Although hurting, I agreed.

I poured out everything in that letter. I wrote the dreams I had with him, hoping we could both laugh at them sixty years in the future.

But I also wrote what I knew would never change in sixty years.

I told him that I will forever dearly hold in my heart the love we have but can never be.

I felt a tear flow from my eye and I immediately wiped it away. Something was squeezing my heart. It was getting harder to breathe.

November 10, 1954

Antonio wrote to me.

He secured our letters in a small steel chest and buried it underneath our tree in Don Salvador.

He said he would be there with a shovel on the 10th of November 2014.

It still hurt that he chose another woman over me.

But I can’t do anything as I am helpless as he.

My father doesn’t have the amount of money his family needed.

My mother was there to comfort me. She assured me that things will be better.

I’m still young. I still have a lot of time to grow up and heal.

Like our tree, I shall grow with the memories of him buried somewhere in my heart.

I did not dare continue. I knew what happened next. I’d heard it several times from my mother. She had told me how my grandfather helped my grandmother move on from another relationship, but she never told me about Antonio. I figured no one really knew of their story apart from my grandparents.

At that moment, I realized I had been reading for a long time that I missed lunch. I closed the diary, ready to write the eulogy.

🌳🌳🌳

A series of knocks rapped the double doors of the room. I looked up from my laptop. “Who is it?”

Just as I said it, the doors opened and came in Erik. No asking for permission, just simply entering like he owned the place. The longer I was exposed to the man, the more I was thinking that something was up with him. He was not just an ordinary driver.

“Don’t you know how to ask for permission to enter?”

He stopped in his tracks at my words. Raising his brows, he gestured with his thumb asking, “You want me to try again?”

I breathed deeply to control myself. It wouldn’t do me good if I would start another fight with him. “What do you want?”

“I just came here to say I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

I did not look at him, my attention back on the speech I was writing.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And what?” This time I threw him a glance.

“Do you forgive me or not?”

“Do I need to answer that? Isn’t it enough you said you’re sorry?”

He seemed confused. “What are you writing?”

That was it. I had to say it. “Why do you have to ask what I’m doing? Is this part of your job?”

He shook his head. “No, but I’m curious.”

“Keep it to yourself.”

“You’re preparing for the eulogy, aren’t you?”

“Why do you always have to bother me? Don’t you have other people to drive around?”

“Only you,” he answered without blinking an eye.

My brows furrowed. “If I ask you to drive me somewhere—anywhere—you will?”

“As long as it doesn’t include planes and boats, I will.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll take that as a promise.”

He looked at me with suspicion. “What are you planning to do?”

“Nothing. It’s just a thought.”

His eyes went to slits as his gazed focused on me. “You are up to something.”

“It’s none of your business…yet.”

“Well, if you are planning to include me in your plan, you better tell me now. Remember, you don’t have much time left before you go back to Manila.” Hearing Erik talk in Tagalog was fun for me. He had that Hiligaynon accent that sounded like he was about to start singing. But when I thought of his words, I agreed that he was right. I didn’t have much time. And that was also the reason why I had to think about my idea.

I just a day and a half left to be exact to really determine my plans fast. But first things first. I had to get this eulogy out of the way before anything else.

I didn’t realize Erik was still standing in the room as I typed away and racked my brain.

When I heard him clear his throat, I looked up. “You’re still here.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me what you need me for.”

“I might tell you tomorrow. I don’t know. For now, I have to be alone. I’m busy.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Okay, but remember, I am a busy man.”

I snorted. Yeah, busy driving his client which is me since the original one is about to be buried six feet under the ground tomorrow, God bless her soul.

“You’re not the only busy person here, you know.”

“When I’m gone, you might be out of job.”

He chuckled. “Okay, do whatever you have to do for now.” He slowly backed out of the room and was gone with the door firmly shut behind him.

Chapter 6

“I never thought I can find such beauty in a place. The moist grass against my bare feet, the whistle of the trees—it was beautiful. Even more so because he was with me and he was holding my hand in his.”

From Corazon’s Diary

Father Guevarra was as old as my grandmother, maybe older. Was he the man who gave his shoulders for my grandmother to cry on when Antonio left?

He walked and talked like he had all the time in the world but whenever he opened his mouth, everyone was not sleeping. Everyone had their attention focused on him. He shared with us his own time with my grandmother, how she used to visit him in church and talk about almost everything.

“I know everything about Corazon but I’m sorry to say that I am not allowed to tell you all. What I can share with you though is how she changed the way I see things. I know it should have been the opposite. Corazon, or Cora as what most of us call her, had a life that most of us may find not so dramatic but let me tell you, my dear brothers and sisters, that Cora lived a life that was full of love…” as he said the last word, Father Guevarra’s eyes darted toward me.

I wasn’t sure if he meant anything by it.

“When she was feeling down, she would always say that the Lord would understand even if others couldn’t. She was a happy woman and we all love her greatly for pouring all the love she had in her heart in every word and action that she said and did…”

As Father Guevarra continued his words, I couldn’t help but feel that same feeling of longing. I was not among those who nodded their heads in agreement because I never knew her.

🌳🌳🌳

“When I was young, my mother told me stories,” I said, looking up from my tab to stare at the crowd of mourners who gathered for my grandmother’s funeral. “She told me stories of a great woman who I soon learned was my grandmother. Unluckily for me, I never had the chance to meet her for reasons I am no longer interested to find out. I have thought for a long time that Wawa didn’t care for me until I found out days ago that she actually constantly talked to my Yaya, asking how I was doing. I don’t know why the two of them had to keep it a secret, but I want to believe it was her way of reaching out to her only grandchild.”

I took a few moments to breathe before I continued.

“Today, to be surrounded by people who knew her more than I, makes me feel a great deal of regret, jealousy and longing.” I didn’t look at anyone in particular as I roamed my eyes at everyone before me. “Regret that it is too late, that I thought I still had a lot of time to take the courage to reach out to her. Passing thoughts would come to me. Should I reach out now? Nah, it’s late. Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day… next month? Oh, I’m so busy, maybe next year.” I smiled bitterly and sighed.

I cleared my throat and continued. “Jealous. I’m jealous of all of you because I never felt her love like you all did. Was it warm? Tender? Every little good things combined? I would never know, would I?” I saw a few wipe their eyes. I bit my lower lip from doing the same. “And I long. I long for even just a little of that love.”

My voice cracked at the last word and I swallowed to compose myself.

I was about to end my speech. I could hang in there for a few more seconds.

But the impetuous me did something that changed everything.

At the last moment, I closed my tab and delivered something fresh from my mind. I was no longer in full control of my words. After everything I have read from my grandmother’s diary and the more I was yet to read, after all the things that everyone said about her, after my very own speech, I wanted to do the only idea that had been running around my mind since yesterday. It was just a tiny thought lurking in the corner of my mind and I never bothered to entertain it until this very moment.

With my mind made up, I continued, “All may be too late for my Wawa and I—too late for the us . We can never do things together. But as someone said the other night, even when two people have never met, it doesn’t mean they don’t have a story together.” I saw Erik smile from where he was seated. I sighed. “I believe it’s not too late for me.”

With no more lines to read but my own made-up mind to control me, I added, “Just two nights ago, I found two things of my grandmother’s that gave me just a little hint of what she really was, from her own self. From them, I learned about a part of her life that not even my mother knew and I don’t intend to stop there.” I smiled. “As Wawa said, ’ I laughed, I cried, I fought, I loved…and now I surrender… ’ I promise to start a journey of discovering the reasons for her laughter, her tears, her battle, her love and her submission. Wawa…” I looked at her picture beside her closed coffin. “I hope to get to know you soon.”

🌳🌳🌳

My decision was final and my father didn’t like it. I talked to him right after the funeral where I grabbed him and we walked to the back of the chapel. He never thought that I would take my eulogy seriously.

I finally convinced him to respect my decision after I promised that I would call every day and tell him I was not dead.

“I need to do this, Dad,” I told him. “I need to understand her, you know? Is she really the evil queen that drove you and Mom away? Is she the woman her students look up to and adore? Is the great friend everyone in the funeral talked about? Mom loved her until her last days and I never understood that. How could she love someone so… so distant and proud?”

My father sighed in surrender. I knew that deep inside, he agreed with me. And I knew he was doing it for my mother as well. That was what she would have wanted after all.

After I left Dad with the other visitors, I looked for Erik. Now it was time for us to make that deal. I found him talking to Rock. They were deep in conversation as they held their food with one hand. Slowly, I made my way across the room where the dinner was being held. My black pumps clicked on the tiled floor, stopping just about a meter away from them.

I cleared my throat and both of them turned their heads toward me.

“Stephanie,” Rock said with a smile. She was wearing a sleeveless, white dress that stopped just above her knee. I didn’t know that apart from being really pretty, she was also sexy. I wouldn’t blame Erik for always finding his way to her. “Your eulogy was touching. It was different and original and that’s what made it so touching.”

I gave her a small smile. “Thanks.” My eyes went to Erik who was wearing a white polo shirt that perfectly fitted him. There was enough evidence of muscles, but not enough to content one’s curiosity either. I didn’t know why I even wondered about that for a second. He had on a pair of denim pants and his hiking shoes which reminded me that he was not my type. “I need to talk to you,” I told him. I turned back to Rock and added, “If that’s okay with you, of course.”

She shook her head and smiled widely. “Don’t worry. I was actually thinking of a way to get away from this guy.” She playfully planted her hand on Erik’s arm as she backed away with a wink.

Erik just laughed her off before he finally faced me with a questioning look. “Are you ready to ask for my help?”

I frowned. “No, I’m ready to hire your help.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to hire you as my driver.”

His brows raised a notch higher. “I thought I already was.” His tone was mocking, which was confusing.

“No, I mean officially.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, for the next few days.”

Then his brows fell in confusion. “Aren’t you going home tomorrow?”

“No, I’m not. I’m going to stay for a while.”

“I thought you don’t like me.”

“You’re a good driver. You know Negros well. All you have to do is drive—and perhaps keep me safe when it’s needed. And it’s not your job to get me to like you.”

“Does this have anything to do with your ’ I hope to get to know you soon ’ speech?”

“Sort of,” I retorted with a shrug. “So?”

“How will you pay me?”

“I’ll pay you handsomely.”

He pretended to think. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I thought you were ready to say yes?” I asked in frustration. If he didn’t take my offer, I had no one else in mind to hire for the position and I didn’t trust myself driving around places I didn’t know.

“I was—yesterday. Now, I don’t know. I may have a lot of things to do.”

“Such as?”

He shrugged. “Stuff.”

I snorted. “You don’t have any other work.”

He chuckled before he sighed. He shrugged again. “I’ll consider your offer.”

“When will you give me your answer?”

“Later,” he said, winked and turned away just like that.

The nerve of the guy!

🌳🌳🌳

For a few hours, I had to forget about Erik’s possible refusal. I had to attend to the guests and then I had to take my father to the airport the next day.

Yaya Sana went with me as I drove us to the airport. Erik was not able to do the job because he was still asleep in his room and no one even bothered waking him up, saying he was tired. I wanted to yell at everyone that they were giving the driver way too much leeway.

“Yaya, are you willing to stay with me for a while as I go about my business here?” I asked her, thinking of an alternative plan. Dad was checking in and both of us were waiting for him outside in a coffee shop.

“I thought you are planning to travel around Negros?”

Last night, I told her of my very vague plan. “Well, not the entire Negros. I won’t have the time for that. I just have a few places in mind and I don’t have anyone to show me the way. I don’t know the province that well.”

The way Yaya Sana looked at me made my shoulders drop. She couldn’t stay. “I left my wards in the care of their mother who took a vacation to look after them full time as I grieve for your Wawa. I have to go back to them, dear.”

I smiled. “That’s okay. I can find someone else.”

“I’m sure Erik will be willing to accompany you.” She sipped her cup of coffee and grimaced at the taste. “I like the native coffee in Burgos market better.”

Chuckling at her last remark, I went back to the subject of Erik . “I already asked him. I said I am willing to pay for his services.”

Yaya Sana looked shocked. “For his services?”

I nodded. “I asked him to be my driver.”

“But I thought you’re only looking for someone to be your travel companion.”

“Isn’t it his job to get behind the wheel? I won’t pay someone just to be comfortable in the passenger seat when he can do the actual driving.” I crossed my leg over the other.

Yaya Sana looked at me with amusement. “What did Erik say?”

“He said he’ll think about it. Can you imagine that?” I asked in disbelief.

“And what did you offer him as payment?”

“Money, of course. I told him I’ll pay him good.”

My former nanny waved her hand. “Don’t worry, he’ll say yes. And when he does, my mind will be at ease. I—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You trust him with your life.”

Dad went back to catch another cup of coffee before boarding and for the last time, he asked me to go back home with him.

“Dad, I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry, once my curiosity is satisfied, I’ll be back. And plus, I need a vacation. You always said so.”

“I don’t really like this idea of you going around the province alone.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be with Erik.” It was a lie of course. I was not sure if the guy would say yes.

Slowly, he nodded. “That’s good to know.”

That’s good to know? Did I just hear my father, the one man in my life who couldn’t and wouldn’t trust another when it came to his daughter’s welfare, say that it was good I would be with someone he barely even knew?

🌳🌳🌳

Yaya Sana and I drove back to Bacolod and to my grandparents’ ancestral home after my father’s plane flew to Manila. When we got there and after I parked the van that used to belong to my grandmother, we found out that Erik had left.

“What? Where?” I asked Manang June.

She shrugged. “He left with a backpack. He said he’ll be gone for a couple of days.”

I turned around in frustration. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Yaya Sana touched my arm and said in a soothing voice, “Now, calm down, child. I’m sure he’ll be back.”

“Does he always do this?”

“I’m sure he has a good reason,” my former nanny replied. “You must be tired. I’ll prepare lunch.”

“I already did. Erik asked to have an early meal before he left,” Manang June interrupted.

“The balls!” I cried out in frustration. “Someone should start taming that man!” I looked at the distant black pick-up truck parked in the darkness. “At least he didn’t take the truck. One would think it was his!”

The two ladies looked at each other with confusion. “Steph—” Yaya Sana started, but I held up my hand.

“Fine, fine. He is like family. He grew up around Wawa. He is entitled to everything.” I stormed into the house without another word. Well, if they didn’t understand my frustration, it was not my problem.

My problem came later that night when Erik was still missing and Yaya Sana told me she had to go back to her wards early in the morning. I spent the night thinking of a way to do the task I had set up for myself alone, without a driver to guide me. If Erik wouldn’t show up, I had to come up with a plan B.

I woke up the next day to bid Yaya Sana goodbye.

“I hate leaving you this way. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” She was looking at me with great concern.

I nodded, but at the same time I wanted to beg her to stay. Now that she was leaving, I was regretting my decision. But I was being selfish. I knew Yaya Sana had a life of her own and I wouldn’t want her worried for her wards. She had to go on her way and so did I.

“You have my number in case you really need me,” she reminded as she grabbed her bags, ready to leave.

I hugged her tight. “I’ll see you before I go back to Manila.”

She touched my face with her calloused hand and said, “Okay. Take care of yourself.”

🌳🌳🌳

The moment she was gone, I attacked my breakfast, ready for battle. I asked Manang June for directions to the closest bookstore. I found it after making three wrong turns, one of them into a one-way street.

Don’t think I didn’t ask Manang June to be my guide for my planned trip because I did and she refused, saying she couldn’t leave the home unattended. Yeah, like she had to prepare food for ghosts.

The future of the estate was to be determined by my father and I once I return to Manila. Maybe that was the reason why Erik left. For all I knew, he was already looking for a new permanent work. I wouldn’t blame him.

My grandmother’s attorney said he would meet me when all was set. He could take all the time he needed. Since no other family member showed up to do the work, I took it my responsibility to make sure that the house would not crumble to the ground due to lack of maintenance until we figured out what to do with it.

When I entered the small bookstore which smelled of old, drafty pages, I went straight to the counter and asked in Tagalog, “Do you have a big map of Negros?”

The girl behind the counter put down the book she was reading. I stole a glance of the cover and shrugged. It was a historical romance, the type which has a woman barely covered in cloth hugging a man who only has his trousers on, nuzzling her neck. I fought off a cringe and followed the lady to the farthest corner of the store.

“Occidental or Oriental?” she asked

“Both,” I answered.

“We have separate maps for both and one with the two provinces.”

“I’ll get the one map with the two provinces.”

She went down to get what I was looking for and handed it to me. Contented, I went to the school supplies section. I took what I thought I needed which were a marking pen, a pencil and a plain notebook. As the lady punched my purchases, I took a book on display in my hand. It was a book on Negros Occidental and Oriental, primarily written for tourists.

“I’ll take this, too,” I said with a smile.

After I paid, I put my sunglasses back on and walked out the store. I felt like one of those women in action films who was about to go to battle.

🌳🌳🌳

When I arrived for lunch, I was very ready. Being alone gave me the motivation to take my plans into action.

Manang June already prepared my lunch and after a hurried meal, I went straight up to my mother’s old room and sat cross-legged on the floor, the large map laid out before me. I took the marker out of the paper bag along with the pencil and the notebook. My grandmother’s dairy was inside my bag so I took that one out as well.

I listed down every place she mentioned and marked each one on the map.

“Wow,” I breathed out. “You’ve been in a lot of places, Wawa.”

To one side of the map, there was Kabankalan, Hinigaran, Bago, Sipalay and Dumaguete. At the other end was Silay, Escalante, San Carlos, Manapla… and more!

How do I manage to get to all these places?

I didn’t know where to start. Where should I?

First, what’s your purpose here?

Fuck. I didn’t know what I wanted to achieve here. I just thought I needed to do this.

Follow where the diary leads you, dimwit .

But if I did that, I would be going back and forth in a lot of places and that would be a great waste of time.

When I couldn’t make up my mind, I decided to take a break and continued to read the diary. Of course, there were no more exciting things to read since there was no Antonio in the picture. What I found out though was how my grandmother tried to forget about the first love of her life with the help of his best friend, Ramon.

I was about to close the book that held my grandmother’s innermost thoughts when I saw Antonio’s name. After almost a year of entry has passed since my grandmother mentioned him.

December 23, 1955

He sent me a letter.

Antonio sent me a letter. Everything is going well with Ramon and I love him dearly.

But I must admit that the love I have for Antonio is still there. I cannot get myself to read the letter. I didn’t tell Ramon about it because I don’t want him to worry. Antonio has chosen a different path, one that would save his family. If only he had chosen me.

That entry was disappointing, but I continued to read the next one.

January 5, 1956

I read the letter and I’m angry. He talked about visiting our tree where he buried the chest where our letters are kept. He referred to it as our ‘time capsule’. I regret ever reading the letter because I am now aware that he still thinks about us every day.

Why did he send me that letter? I don’t want anything to hold me back from my decision of marrying Ramon.

I want to love Ramon like I do Antonio. I desperately want to give him the same love he is giving me. If only I can forget about the other man.

After I read the entry, I didn’t know what to feel. Did my grandmother marry my grandfather while loving someone else?

February 9, 1956

I finally decided not to answer Antonio’s letter. I’m marrying Ramon and my parents are happy about it. They said that it is time for me to be with someone else. Ramon asked if I want to invite Antonio to our wedding.

He’s a really good man despite his mean features. He did not question me when I said no.

The next time I face and talk to Antonio, it will be on the day that we promised to open the letters we wrote for each other. And when that time comes, I will be a happy woman.

I will already have my own children and grandchildren. I will be someone who loved a man named Antonio and a woman who managed to survive with the help of a great man.

Why couldn’t she just fight for their love? Why did she have to continue hurting? My answers were answered by the next entry.

February 27, 1956

I fought as hard as I could, diary. I fought for my own happiness without Antonio in it. Maybe I will regret not fighting hard enough for our love in the future, but I don’t care. I can still bring happiness to those around me and, in its own way, it’s satisfying. I’ll make Ramon happy for the rest of our lives together and not think about Antonio for the next fifty-eight years until we meet again underneath that tree, both of us wise to our years.

By then, I know that we will find our letters stupid. For now, I say goodbye to the man whom I will forever love, a love that I now admit can never be erased, for it shall always have its mark in the memories I hold in my heart.

When I had enough of reading, I stood up and walked to the doors. When I opened them, I saw Erik standing just a foot away, his fist in the air as if he was just about to knock.

“Hi,” he said with a big smile on his face.

Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 14

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 15

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 16

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 17

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 18

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 19

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 20

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 21

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 22

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 23

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 24

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 25

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 26

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 27

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 28

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 29

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 30

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 31

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 32

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 33

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 34

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 35

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Chapter 36

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Epilogue

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Special Chapter

This story is part of the Paid Stories program, a selection of exclusive stories that help support Wattpad writers. Click here to continue reading on the Wattpad app.

Esta historia pertenece al programa de Historias Pagadas, una selección exclusiva de historias con las que apoyas a escritores de Wattpad. Da click aquí para seguir leyendo en la aplicación.

Author’s Note

THE TIME CAPSULE IS NOW A PUBLISHED BOOK!

For years, I have tried to find a home for this book and just this year, The Time Capsule has finally been published by Bliss Books, Wattpad’s publishing partner here in the Philippines!

It’s now available nationwide in the Philippines.

Check out my social media accounts or go to Bliss’ official social handles for more details. But since you guys are well-versed with technology than me, you can go to Bliss’ official store on Shopee and Lazada.

Steph, Erik, Corazon, and Antonio finally found a home!

Thank you to everyone who has always loved this story. This would not have been possible without you.

P.S. Yes, of course, the book has a special chapter!

Best,

J.D. Ruiz (greenwriter)