L-R back row:my mom, lola paulin pregnant with tito herbert, lolo dioni, some guy carrying tito lito
L-R front row: auntie becky, tito rommel, tito peter, and tito erwin

every family has their own story. their own past. their own bitterness. their own triumphs. their own tragedies. i don’t know if i have the right to tell this story but i feel that, in a way, their story is my story too, as their blood courses through these veins. and my life will forever be intertwined with theirs.

in case you’re wondering where i got such a unique name, it was actually my maternal grandfather who gave me that name. through a dream. my dad’s dream. my grandfather was already dead then. died a year before i was born. he was a brilliant man. very smart. also, very alcoholic. he died as a consequence of the vice he nurtured and loved for so many years.

he was a very good father, as i was told. on his sober days. days. not weeks, as he would once again return to his habit of drinking from dusk till dawn. and from then on, it was nightmare for his family again. i can’t even begin to describe the terror of his ways. setting the house on fire may have been the least of his offenses once we start talking about the emotional turmoils he brought upon his own wife and children.

but for what it’s worth, it made my mom one of the strongest persons i know. one of the toughest, in fact. it was especially hard for her, being the eldest in the family. she had younger siblings to take care of, on top of her own personal issues. but she moved on, although not totally. i know she still carries a small part of her past with her. i know those memories unconsciously still haunt her deep. and although i may not always understand my mom, i have so much respect for her. she is my mother, after all. i only wish i had half her strength to be able to endure every trial that comes my way.

i miss my mom. i know i may not always tell her that i love her but i do. i swear i do.