The morning air carried a gentle chill, softened by streaks of golden sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. Soft footsteps padded along the wooden floor as Rainan balanced a tray of ingredients, trying not to make a sound. His mother peeked from behind the kitchen door, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
“He’s still snoring,” she whispered with a grin. “Let’s finish before he wakes up.”
They moved around in near silence, setting up a homemade banner in the living room and laying out the pans and bowls in the kitchen. The scent of brewed coffee and warm butter soon filled the house.
By the time the celebrant shuffled out of the bedroom in his faded camisa de chino, scratching his head and blinking at the sunlight, the two were waiting by the table.
“Happy birthday!” they cheered in chorus, gesturing at the banner and the small spread of food already on the table.
He blinked at the setup, then laughed—a deep, satisfied laugh that rumbled from his chest. “You two really did this, huh?”
“No escaping birthdays, not in this house,” Leticia teased, kissing his cheek.
“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” Rainan added. “We’re putting you to work. You’re helping us cook.”
“Figures,” he chuckled. “So that’s why you two look extra cheerful today.”
They spent the next hour in a rhythm of warmth and chatter. He chopped onions while Rainan marinated meat for the grill, and Leticia rolled lumpia with expert ease. There was laughter, playful bickering over the right way to flip bangus, and even a small flour fight when Rainan sneezed into a bowl of pancake mix.
“Hey,” he said at one point, wiping his hands. “Why not invite Angelo and his family? Let’s make this a proper celebration.”
Leticia glanced up with a knowing look. “That’s a good idea.”
A quick phone call later, the plan was set. By early afternoon, the small front yard was abuzz with company. Mikaela arrived carrying pancit, her husband Paulo strumming a guitar case with one hand and balancing a bag of drinks with the other. Little Clara ran ahead of them, waving a handmade card high above her head.
“Happy birthday, Tito!” she called out as she rushed to give Eduardo a hug.
“You’ve grown taller again!” he said with a laugh, lifting her up briefly before setting her down.
Paulo soon pulled out the guitar and settled on a bench, strumming easy, familiar tunes. The music floated through the air while neighbors dropped by to greet, and the long table under the mango tree began to fill with food, drinks, and stories.
Amid laughter and music, Rainan found himself seated beside Angelo, the two casually brushing shoulders as they passed plates and exchanged side comments only they seemed to understand. It didn’t go unnoticed by the others—but no one said anything. Everything about the moment felt natural.
Later, after the guests began to leave and Clara fell asleep on her mother’s lap, Eduardo leaned against the porch railing, sipping coffee. Rainan joined him, the breeze soft against their skin.
“This was nice,” the older man said, eyes on the fading light. “Simple, but full.”
“It was perfect,” came the quiet reply.
There was a pause—one of those rare silences that spoke more than words.
“You know,” the father began, voice low, “I’ve never been good at showing things. Feelings, I mean. Your mother’s the one who always knew how to say what was needed.”
The younger one glanced sideways, surprised by the openness.
“I’ve always known,” he said softly. “Even when you were quiet... I still knew you cared.”
He nodded. “Still, I could’ve done better. I’ve thought about that a lot. How I wasn’t always there the way I should’ve been. I’d get caught up in work or tired, and I forgot that presence matters more than providing sometimes.”
Silence fell again, but it was a listening silence.
“I used to wish you’d talk more,” Rainan admitted. “There were days in the city when I’d hear your voice in my head, and I’d wish I’d heard it more growing up. But now… I get it. We’re not all made the same.”
The old man gave a small smile. “I’m proud of what you’ve become, anak. Even if I didn’t always say it.”
Those words struck deeper than expected.
“I should’ve called more,” the younger man said, guilt woven into his voice. “I kept telling myself I was busy. But maybe I was also afraid... of what I’d find if I came back.”
“What did you find?”
A long breath. “Home. Just as I remembered. And not as broken as I feared.”
The older man’s hand landed gently on his son’s shoulder. “Then stay. Or at least, don’t be a stranger anymore.”
“I won’t,” came the quiet promise.
They stood there a while longer, just the two of them—watching fireflies dance over the grass and the last notes of Paulo’s guitar fading into the dusk. The party may have ended, but in that conversation—honest, open, healing—something else had just begun.
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Rainan’s Perspective:
The breeze was cooler now, brushing gently across his skin as dusk settled fully over the town. The laughter had faded. Plates were cleared. The guests had gone home. Yet somehow, the most important part of the day had only just begun.
He sat quietly on the porch steps, eyes fixed on the warm light spilling from the kitchen window. His father had gone back inside, but the weight of their conversation lingered like the echo of a slow song—reverberating in his chest.
“I’m proud of what you’ve become, anak.”
He hadn’t realized how long he’d waited to hear those words.
Rainan exhaled deeply, resting his arms on his knees. There was something humbling about being seen by the man who had always stood a little behind the spotlight—quiet, dependable, but unreadable. All those childhood memories where he longed for a little more affection suddenly felt softer now. Not erased. Just... understood.
Maybe his father didn’t know how to say “I love you” in grand gestures. But he had said it in the way he silently fixed the roof during storms, in the way he made sure Rainan’s bike was always working, in the way he now opened up, despite his nature, just to bridge the gap between them.
And maybe, Rainan thought, he hadn’t done enough either. Maybe success and city lights had distracted him more than he liked to admit. For so long, he believed he was chasing something important—but none of that mattered more than this: sitting on the porch of his childhood home, hearing the words he never knew he needed.
Behind him, the old screen door creaked open.
“Hey,” came a familiar voice.
Angelo.
Rainan turned, and without thinking, he smiled. “Hey.”
“Your dad told me you might be out here,” he said, walking over and taking the spot beside him.
They sat together in easy silence. The air was scented with grilled meat, earth, and the faint smoke from the neighbors' bonfire. In the distance, someone was still playing a guitar.
“I saw you two talking earlier,” Angelo said after a while. “Looked like something serious.”
“It was,” Rainan murmured. “He apologized.”
“Really?” Angelo tilted his head.
Rainan nodded, staring up at the stars beginning to show in the deepening sky. “And I did too. We had this… moment. Like we both finally met halfway.”
Angelo gave a slow smile. “You look lighter.”
“I feel it.”
They sat for another long beat, shoulder to shoulder.
“I think,” Rainan said quietly, “this is the happiest I’ve been in a very long time. Not because of the food or the people or even the party. Just… everything. Being here. Being home.”
Angelo didn’t reply right away. But when he reached over and gently slipped his fingers into Rainan’s, it was all the answer he needed.
Rainan looked down at their joined hands, then up again at the sky.
He used to look at the stars and think about where he hadn’t been.
Now, he looked at them and thought about all the places that brought him back.