If my father's leaving cracked something open in me, my mother sealed it shut like it had never been there.
She didn't cry.
Not once.
Not that night, not the morning after, not even when his things slowly disappeared from the closet like vanishing acts. His cufflinks. His cologne. The photo of the three of us at the beach—the one where I'm missing two teeth and smiling like the world was still whole—gone without mention.
She never said his name again. Not even once. It was like if she pretended he never existed, then maybe the wound would stay hidden under the linoleum floor, buried beneath the laundry, swallowed by the clink of teaspoons and the hum of the electric fan.
Instead, she became... efficient.
Her movements were sharp and clean. She woke up at exactly 5:30 every morning without fail. Not 5:29. Not 5:31. Just as the rooster crowed from the neighbor's yard and the tricycle engines started warming up outside, the switch in her seemed to flip on.
Tik-tik-tik went the lighter against the stove.
Blup-blup-blup went the kettle.
The coffee maker gurgled to life like a war drum, the smell of bitter roast filling the kitchen like armor.
She always made it strong. Black. No sugar.
"Sweet things are for birthdays and holidays," she once said, handing me a slice of pandesal without butter. "And even then, you don't need too much."
I used to count how many words she said before 7:00 a.m. Sometimes three. Sometimes seven. Never more than ten. Most of them were commands.
"Eat."
"Comb your hair."
"Don't be late."
"Huwag kang magpahuli sa klase, nakakahiya."
She didn't have time for softness. Her eyebrows were always perfectly drawn, even on Sundays. Her lipstick—matte, deep rose—was never smudged. It was like her mouth was stitched in discipline. She walked through the world like she was late for something important, even when she wasn't.
She didn't get tired—only finished.
I learned quickly: silence meant safety. Neatness meant love.
A misplaced shoe on the stairs could summon a scolding. Tears were met with sighs. And questions? Especially the tender kind—the Do you miss him? or the Why did he go? or the Did you love him? kind?
They made her jaw tighten. Her eyes would glaze over like she had vanished into a memory she had no intention of sharing.
I stopped asking questions that began with "Why" or "How come" or "Do you ever think…"
Instead, I found new ways to speak to her.
A+ meant I love you.
A clean room said please don't leave too.
Spelling Bee Champion screamed look at me—am I enough yet?
When I got my first "Top of the Class" ribbon, I handed it to her like an offering.
"Para sayo 'to, Ma," I said, heart galloping inside my chest.
She didn't hug me. She didn't say she was proud.
But that night, I found the certificate stuck to the fridge with the same magnet that used to hold up Dad's beach photo.
That was her version of affection. Cold and magnetic.
And I took it. I swallowed it whole.
Because if she didn't cry, I wouldn't either.
I learned to tuck my emotions beneath perfectly lined notebooks, color-coded highlighters, and ambitious to-do lists. I learned that asking for attention was dangerous. That waiting for comfort was a kind of foolishness. That the only way to survive in a house like ours was to be excellent.
So I did.
I memorized multiplication tables like spells.
Wrote essays with military precision.
Organized my pencil case like it held the universe.
I perfected the art of holding my breath when someone raised their voice, just in case the world cracked open again.
People said I was "driven."
No one asked what was driving me.
Sometimes, late at night, I'd hear her in the kitchen. The house quiet, the kalan already cold. She'd be standing alone by the sink, staring out the window at nothing. The fridge light cast a faint glow on her face. Her shoulders relaxed in a way they never were during the day. Her eyes would shine—not with tears, but with something else. Something too sad to have a name.
One night, I woke up to pee and caught her there.
She didn't notice me right away.
She was humming something faint, something from her childhood maybe—Bituing Marikit or Kailangan Kita—I couldn't tell. Just that it was gentle. Fragile, almost. Like a lullaby she used to know before she forgot how to sing.
"Ma?" I said softly.
She turned quickly, the spell broken. "Bakit gising ka pa?"
"I… I forgot to close my notebook," I lied.
She looked at me, and for a moment I thought she'd say something. But she didn't. She nodded toward the stairs.
"Tulog na. May klase ka bukas."
And just like that, the armor came back on.
She turned back to the sink, wiped her hands, and the humming stopped.
I sometimes wondered what she looked like before life hardened her edges. What her laugh sounded like before it became a polite chuckle over coffee with coworkers. What it felt like to be held by her—really held, not because you earned it, but because you needed it.
But she never broke.
And so, neither did I.