Page 3 of Signal No. Us

In the private cinema of his ego, his mother (played, obviously, by Susan Africa) lay on a bed, fragile but radiant, one hand reaching for him. He’d rush to her side. There would be soft lighting, a Regine Velasquez ballad playing from some logistically implausible corner, and dust motes doing interpretive dance. She would whisper, “Anak…thank you for coming home,” and all their accumulated resentment would dissolve in a tasteful montage.

Instead, the second he stepped through the door, somebody shrieked.

“Oh my God, Allan! It’s really you!”

Tita Gemma hurtled toward him like a floral torpedo. “You’ve gotten so fat!”

Before he could dodge, her fingers dug into his cheeks and pulled.

He yelped, dignity and facial structure both under assault. “Tita!”

“At least hindi siya ginugutom sa Manila,” she announced to the room, as if reporting breaking news to a studio audience.

The living room was controlled chaos.

The heavy narra dining table in the middle, the same one he’d eaten every meal on as a kid, scarred with decades of spoons and elbows, groaned under steaming rice porridge, pancit, puto, sapin-sapin, two plates of suman, and a tray of something that might be afritada or might be menudo, no one was willing to commit either way. The ceiling fan shuddered overhead like it was praying for overtime pay.

Around the table, in full floral armor and rosary beads, sat his mother’s closest friends and self-appointed security council: Tita Becky, Tita Yolanda, and Tita Gemma. Half the barangay called them the BEBES: Mga Banal na Babae ng Barangay Espiritu Santo. Holy women. In their own minds, anyway.

In the corner, a scruffy brown dog with mismatched eyes and one ear permanently folded down lay sprawled on the cool tiles. The instant Allan stepped in, the dog perked up, trotted over, sniffed his shoes and his bag, then went unerringly for his crotch.

“There’s Oryo,” Tita Gemma said fondly. “The barangay’s matchmaker.”

“Oreo? Like the cookie?” Allan asked, scratching the dog’s head.

“No,” Tita Yolanda said, crossing herself on principle. “Like Oriol. The monster from the Ibalon epic. But he’s sweet. Sometimes.”

The dog, apparently pleased with his mythological branding, licked Allan’s hand enthusiastically.

“He really showed up!” Tita Becky crowed, smacking Tita Yolanda’s arm. “I told you, he’d never leave his mother.”

With the drama of a dethroned pageant queen, Tita Yolanda pulled a folded bill from her bra and slapped it into Becky’s palm.

“Forgive me, Lord, for betting on a son’s abandonment issues.”

“Hello,” Allan said weakly. “I’m right here, po. Standing right here.”

“Us too, anak,” Tita Gemma said, already ladling porridge into a bowl like carbs could solve ten years of absence. “Sit down. Eat.”

“I—uh—san po si Mama?” he asked, scanning the room. “Is she okay?”

Before anyone could answer, a familiar scent drifted in from the hallway: ylang-ylang, menthol liniment, baby powder, and that faint graphite smell of freshly sharpened Mongol pencils.

“All right, enough noise,” his mother’s voice called. “You’ll scare the neighbors.”

She came in from the kitchen, balancing a bowl of seaweed salad in one hand and swatting a fly with the other.

Mrs. Corazon Rosario Talan Reyes. Former science teacher. Retired principal. Terror of San Andres National High School. Legend of every last-minute quiz.

She looked exactly the same.

Same neat bun. Same floral duster. Same assessing frown that could make a whole classroom sit up straighter. There was a tiny drag on one side of her mouth now, a fraction of a limp in her step, but the energy was unmistakable.

He crossed the room quickly and bent to take her hand for mano, the old habit surfacing before he’d even decided to let it.

“Mano po,” he said, pressing her knuckles briefly to his forehead.

“Good to know you still remember,” she said dryly, but her fingers held his for one beat longer than necessary before letting go.