“Did we get to eat Jollibee the last time we went back to Cebu?” my sister asked me. She was chatting with friends at the dining table and, as was expected, the conversation turned to Filipino food.

We didn’t.

But we were able to eat at Chowking in Tagbilaran though on the last day of our trip to Panglao. Before we were set to go back to Cebu to stuff ourselves with more food by having dinner at Orange Brutus, another fast food chain we miss for their dodgy-looking sizzling burger steak smothered in an equally dodgy-looking gravy which we couldn’t care less because it was always such a treat growing up. Only the rich kids could afford to eat them regularly — and casually — back in the day.

Obviously, we weren’t a part of that demographic.

Raven loved the chicken. I loved the halo-halo with the ube ice cream and leche flan. So good! I reckon Chowking has the best halo-halo. All the rest that I’ve tried just doesn’t compare.

And there’s Raven and Adie being so similar to each other in terms of facial expressions and mannerisms. They’re so alike, I kid you not. But because they have pretty much the same interests, Raven gets a bit competitive with her and starts to get jealous when she feels like Adie’s work is better than hers. Good thing Adie is very patient and understanding with her. She’s a great kid. Both my nieces are. I always say they were my daughters before I had my daughter.

Jeff loved Tagbilaran for all the skating he could do. To be honest, it scares me to watch him weave in and out of the traffic on his blades but at the same time, I’m proud of him too for doing what he does and building his very own electric skates. It does pique other people’s interests watching him fly down the roads as they obviously haven’t seen anything like it. And with Filipinos being such curious, friendly creatures, they get quite keen to ask him questions, of which Jeff is naturally happy to engage in the dialect that he is very fluent now compared to when I first met him.

Before leaving Tagbilaran, I asked if we could have our photo taken in front of Dennis’s door. His house is one of the oldest in the area, at almost a hundred years old. I love his house. I love the way the wood has developed a characteristic shine and patina, the browns looking almost black because of age. It’s beautiful.

As it sits right in the heart of a bustling city bent on modernisation, it is a silent reminder of the passage of time and the strength of mangrove hardwood that has survived World War II. It’s got a really interesting history but I’m not sure, even if I have all the details, if it’s my story to tell. Perhaps my niece would be the right voice to speak for it, on behalf of all the ancestors that came before her.

I guess I’m just glad to be part of it, albeit indirectly. I feel really privileged to go in there every time I’m given the chance. As someone who adores ancestral houses and daydreams of what they look like inside through their windows, it is always an honour to be welcomed into one.

*Raven at 7 years old