The Space Between Us

Death doesn't scare me, but the thought of losing my loved ones? That's something I cannot fathom. Isn't it ironic? I could face death myself, but the idea of losing them feels like a nightmare - something too big to even imagine. It's like a dream I cannot wake up from, a dream I do not want to wake from.

I bumped into a woman who was suffering from cancer, and she said, "Na-opera rin ang Mama noong November, hindi ba?" I was startled, thinking it was a secret that my mom had undergone surgery. But then I realized - my mom's always been so open, so ready to help others, that everyone knows her story. I had forgotten how much people admire her kindness, how much they rely on it.

She went on, "Mahirap talaga kapag may tumubo na tumor sa 'yo," I didn't quite catch all of it, but my mind drifted. My mom and I might be close by blood, but emotionally? We are miles apart. I have never been able to say "I love you" to her - not because I don't, but because it felt... awkward. Cringe - that was the word I always used. Maybe because I grew up in a family where emotions were never on display. We loved each other, sure, but we kept it locked inside.

Later, my brother showed me a video. It was the woman's son, who had gotten into a fist fight with someone over his mother's cancer. And suddenly, it struck me - would I react the same way if I were that close with my mom? Would I have fought for her like that if I had reached out to her sooner? If I had not let my own discomfort keep me from saying what needed to be said, would things have been different? Could life have been warmer, more loving? I do not know. But I will only find out if I start now.

Sitting with my tea on a quiet morning, the warm air surrounding me, I look out at dying plants on the windowsill - strangely, they mirror the storm of emotions inside me. I have always resented the way my family functioned, like machines running on autopilot for twenty-five years. When I was younger, we'd have breakfast in silence. My dad buried in his newspaper, my mom reviewing design reports, my brother lost in his own world. The silence was suffocating. It felt like we were strangers sitting at the same table, forced together because it was the only one left.

We'd go through the motions - drop us off at school, and repeat the same ritual at dinner. But there was no connection. When I needed help with my homework, they were too tired, too busy. I was alone with it - six or seven years old, trying to make sense of things I should not have had to figure out my own. Sometimes, I envied other kids - how their mothers could drop everything to them, but not mine. Why could she help others so freely, but not us? That is when the resentment started. If they were going to treat us like that, why have us at all?

But now, I see it differently. Maybe they wanted us to be independent - maybe they thought by stepping back, they were teaching us to stand on our own. They did love us, in their own way. It's just the routine, the cold, mechanical structure of our lives, which makes it hard to see. I mistook their silence for indifference. Now, I understand, it was their way of showing care. And maybe, just maybe, it is not too late to show them mine.

The thought lingers: there's still time. I am afraid to lose her - afraid that if I don't act now, I'll regret not saying what I should have. But maybe it is not too late. Maybe love can grow between us, even now. My parents have made mistakes, but that doesn't erase the love they've always had for us. They gave everything they could, in their own way. And that counts. I can start showing my love, too. It's not about perfection. It's about being present, in the moment. Before it's too late.