1. Saturday
By the time Isa Reyes woke up, the morning had already made plans without her.
Sunlight slipped through the narrow gap between her curtains, falling across her pillow and directly onto her face. Somewhere outside, a car horn sounded twice. A bus groaned at the intersection before pulling away, and someone in the apartment above hers was moving furniture—or at least making a convincing attempt at it.
Isa reached for her phone without opening her eyes.
There were seven notifications.
Three were from work. Two were from her younger brother. The remaining two were from Mara.
She opened Mara's messages first.
Mara: Are you coming tonight?
Mara: Please don't tell me you've forgotten.
Mara: Also, bring ice.
Isa checked the time.
11:43 a.m.
She had intended to wake up at nine. She had also intended to do laundry, buy groceries, clean the kitchen, and finally organize the collection of unopened mail on her counter.
Instead, she had slept through most of Saturday.
She typed a reply.
Isa: Good morning to you too.
The response came almost immediately.
Mara: It's almost noon.
Isa: I can read.
Mara: Can you arrive before eight?
Isa: Yes.
Mara: That's not a convincing yes.
Isa put the phone down.
She had known Mara long enough to understand that this conversation would continue until one of them gave up. Usually, it was Isa.
She got out of bed, opened the curtains, and stood for a moment looking at the street below.
It was an ordinary Saturday in Queens. People were already out buying groceries, carrying coffees, walking dogs, and moving between shops. A delivery cyclist stopped near the corner. A woman pushed a stroller with one hand while balancing a paper bag in the other.
The neighborhood was awake.
Isa was simply late to it.
She made coffee before doing anything else.
Her apartment was small but comfortable, a one-bedroom she had rented for a little over two years. The living room contained a secondhand sofa, a narrow bookshelf, and a dining table that doubled as a workspace. A few framed photographs hung on the wall. One was of her family at a restaurant in Flushing. Another showed her and Nico at a beach several summers earlier, both squinting into the sun.
There was also a photograph of her grandmother.
Isa had placed it on the bookshelf beside a small ceramic bowl that served no particular purpose. She had brought both from her parents' house when she moved out.
She liked having things that had belonged to other people.
She was less good at throwing things away.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time, it was Nico.
Nico: Ma says call her.
Isa stared at the message.
There were few things more suspicious than a text from her younger brother that began with Ma says.
She called him.
"Hello?"
"Why?"
"Good morning to you too," Nico said.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"Then why does Ma want me to call?"
"Maybe she misses you."
"She has your number."
"Wow. Okay. Love you too."
Isa heard a television playing in the background, followed by their mother's voice asking someone to turn the volume down.
She could picture the scene without trying: her father in his usual chair, Nico standing near the kitchen, and her mother moving between the stove and the dining table as though there were always something that needed to be done.
"She's making sinigang," Nico said.
"Okay."
"She wants to know if you're coming tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Sunday, Isa."
"I know what tomorrow is."
"Just checking."
"I have plans."
"With who?"
"People."
"Very informative."
Isa took a sip of coffee.
"Tell her I'll call later."
"Tell her yourself. I'm not your secretary."
He hung up.
Isa smiled at her phone.
Nico had always been better at saying things directly. Even as children, he had been the one who asked questions their parents preferred not to answer. Isa, on the other hand, had learned early that some questions could make a room uncomfortable.
She had become good at reading the room.
Sometimes, she wondered whether she had become too good at it.
She placed her cup in the sink and began sorting through the mail on the counter. Most of it was advertisements and bills. One envelope was addressed to her father, which she set aside for the next time she visited.
She put the rest in a neat pile.
It was a small victory.
By early afternoon, she had showered, finished a load of laundry, and decided that the apartment could survive another week without being thoroughly cleaned.
She made a list of groceries.
Eggs. Milk. Coffee. Rice.
She added a few things she didn't need, including frozen dumplings and a packet of instant noodles.
The refrigerator was not empty. It simply lacked the things she wanted.
Before leaving, she checked her messages.
Mara: Seven. Don't be late.
Isa: I thought you said eight.
Mara: I said arrive before eight. That's different.
Isa: You're very particular for someone having a birthday.
Mara: It's called standards.
Isa shook her head, put her phone in her bag, and left.
Outside, the September afternoon was warm enough that she regretted bringing a jacket. The summer heat had not entirely disappeared, but the air carried a hint of the season changing. People walked with the unhurried confidence of those who knew the neighborhood well.
Isa liked this part of Queens.
She liked that she could walk into a grocery store and be greeted by someone who remembered her mother. She liked hearing different languages on the same block. She liked the restaurants that had been there for years and the newer ones that seemed to appear every few months.
She liked that the neighborhood never asked her to explain why she belonged.
At the grocery store, she picked up what she needed and exchanged a few words with the woman at the counter.
"How's your mother?"
"She's good. Busy as always."
"Tell her I said hello."
"I will."
The woman smiled and handed her the receipt.
It was a brief exchange, barely a minute long. Still, Isa carried it with her as she walked home.
She had spent much of her childhood learning how to belong in places.
At eight, she had arrived in New York with her parents, a few suitcases, and a collection of memories that were too young to be complete. She remembered her grandmother's house in fragments: the television playing in the afternoon, the sound of people talking outside, the particular way the adults called her name when it was time to eat.
She remembered the first winter in New York more clearly than the flight itself.
The cold had surprised her. So had the school cafeteria, the unfamiliar snacks, and the realization that some of her classmates had never heard of the things she considered ordinary.
She learned English quickly. She learned the subway system. She learned when to speak and when to let things pass.
Her parents learned too.
They found familiar groceries, figured out public transportation, and built a life around work schedules and bills. Their sacrifices were never presented as sacrifices. They were simply what needed to be done.
Isa understood why they had moved.
She understood what they had given up.
Sometimes, though, gratitude felt like another responsibility she had to carry.
Her phone buzzed.
Nico: Did you call Ma?
Isa: Not yet.
Nico: You're going to get a lecture.
Isa: I hope you enjoy your weekend.
Nico: I live here. I have no escape.
She laughed as she crossed the street.
At six fifteen, Isa stood in front of her closet.
She had changed twice.
The first outfit looked too formal. The second looked like she had not tried at all. She finally settled on dark jeans, a black top, and a jacket she could take off if Mara's apartment became too warm.
She tied her shoulder-length hair back, looked at herself in the mirror, and let it fall again.
She was not particularly interested in dressing up for a birthday gathering, but she also did not want to look as though she had come directly from the grocery store.
Her phone lit up.
Mara: Where are you?
Isa: Getting ready.
Mara: You said that twenty minutes ago.
Isa: I'm almost done.
Mara: You said that twenty minutes ago too.
Isa put the phone in her bag.
She took the ice from the freezer, checked that she had her keys, and left.
Mara's apartment was already loud when Isa arrived.
The door opened before she could knock a second time.
"Finally."
Mara stood in the doorway wearing an oversized shirt and an expression of exaggerated disappointment.
"Happy birthday," Isa said.
"Thank you. You're late."
"I'm fifteen minutes early."
"Late emotionally."
Isa handed her the bag of ice.
"Your gift."
Mara looked inside.
"I hate you."
"You specifically said ice."
"I know. I was hoping you'd bring something else."
"Should've been more specific."
Isa stepped inside.
The apartment smelled of roasted chicken, garlic, and something sweet baking in the oven. Shoes were scattered near the entrance. Someone had left a jacket on the back of a dining chair, and a playlist was playing from a speaker on the kitchen counter.
There were already several people in the living room.
Paolo was sitting on the floor, trying to take a photograph of a plate of food while Sam held up a phone flashlight.
"Don't move," Paolo instructed.
Sam looked at him. "I'm holding a light, not performing surgery."
"Photography is an art."
"Then suffer for it."
Isa laughed as she passed them.
"Happy birthday, Mara," Sam called.
"It's not mine," Mara replied.
"Then happy birthday to whoever's having one."
The room erupted into overlapping conversations.
Isa greeted people she knew, exchanged hugs, and accepted a glass of wine she had not asked for. Someone asked about work. Someone else wanted to know whether she was still living in the same apartment.
She answered automatically, slipping into the comfortable rhythm of a gathering where nobody needed a formal introduction.
It was one of the things she liked about this group.
They had come together through different friendships, different jobs, and different corners of the city. Some had known one another for years. Others had only recently become regulars at gatherings like this.
But they had developed their own small traditions.
Birthdays were celebrated. Bad news was shared. People were fed whether they were hungry or not. Nobody was expected to have their life entirely figured out.
It was not a perfect family.
It was, in many ways, a family that had been chosen.
"Have you met everyone?" Mara asked, appearing beside her.
"Most of them."
"There's someone I want you to meet."
Isa glanced toward the kitchen.
A woman stood near the counter, helping arrange a few containers of food. She had dark hair that fell just past her shoulders and wore a light-colored blouse with the sleeves casually rolled up. She was listening to something Paolo was saying, smiling as she placed a stack of plates beside him.
"That's Gabi," Mara said. "Gabriela. She knows Sam."
Isa nodded.
"She moved here a few years ago. From Manila."
"Okay."
"She's nice. You'll like her."
Mara said this with the confidence of someone who had already decided how the evening would go.
Isa gave her a look.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're making a face."
"This is just my face."
Mara rolled her eyes and took her by the arm.
"Come on."
They crossed the living room.
Gabi turned as they approached, holding a dish towel in one hand.
"Hey," Mara said. "Gabi, this is Isa. Isa, Gabi."
"Hi," Gabi said.
"Hi."
"Gabi's the one who brought the pancit," Mara added.
"I helped," Gabi corrected. "My cousin made most of it."
"She brought food. That's what matters."
Gabi laughed.
"Nice to meet you," she said.
"You too."
For a moment, there was nothing else to say.
Someone called Mara from the other room. She turned, already distracted by another birthday-related emergency.
"I'll be right back. You two can talk."
Neither of them had asked to be left together, but neither objected.
Gabi glanced at the plates on the counter.
"Do you know where Mara keeps the serving spoons?"
Isa looked toward the drawer beside the sink.
"Probably there."
"Probably?"
"She's moved things around three times this year."
Gabi opened the drawer.
It was full of batteries, rubber bands, a lighter, and a collection of takeout menus.
"Right," she said. "Good start."
Isa stepped closer and opened the cabinet above it.
"Try here."
Inside were three serving spoons, two ladles, and a small plastic container with no lid.
Gabi looked at the cabinet.
"Of course."
"She's organized in theory."
Gabi laughed.
It was a small laugh, easily lost beneath the noise of the apartment.
They found the spoons, arranged the food, and returned to the living room as someone began asking where the cake was.
Isa took another sip of wine.
Gabi was pulled into a conversation with Sam. Isa found a place to sit beside Paolo, who was now showing everyone the photographs he had taken.
The evening continued.
People ate. Someone complained about the weather. Paolo insisted on taking group photographs. Mara gave a short, embarrassing speech about how much she loved everyone and how nobody was allowed to leave before having cake.
At some point, Isa found herself sitting beside Gabi at the dining table.
They talked about the food first.
Gabi asked where Isa usually bought groceries. Isa recommended a small shop a few blocks away. They compared notes on the neighborhood and complained about how difficult it was to find an apartment that didn't require giving up half a paycheck.
"How long have you been here?" Gabi asked.
"Since I was eight."
"Oh. So basically forever."
"Long enough to complain about the rent like a local."
Gabi smiled.
"I moved here when I was twenty-six."
"That's a big adjustment."
"That's one way to put it."
There was something in the way Gabi said it that suggested a longer answer. Isa considered asking, but Gabi was already looking toward the kitchen, where Mara was trying to fit the remaining food into a refrigerator that was clearly too full.
"Do you miss Manila?" Isa asked.
Gabi looked back at her.
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"I miss the people. The food. Being able to go somewhere without planning three different train connections." She paused. "I don't miss the traffic, though."
"Nobody misses the traffic."
"Some people do. I think they just miss having something to complain about."
Isa laughed.
It was the kind of conversation that could have continued, but someone called Gabi over to help with the cake.
She stood.
"Nice talking to you," she said.
"You too."
And that was that.
No sudden recognition. No strange feeling that the world had shifted. No reason for Isa to think the evening would matter beyond being another birthday gathering with too much food.
She watched Gabi disappear into the kitchen, then returned to the conversation at the table.
It was almost eleven when Isa decided to leave.
Mara was standing near the entrance, trying to convince Paolo that the remaining cake could fit inside a container that was clearly too small.
"Take some," Mara told Isa.
"I don't need cake."
"Nobody needs cake. That's not the point."
She handed Isa a container anyway.
Isa accepted it.
"Thank you."
"Text me when you get home."
"I always do."
"You say that every time."
"And I mean it every time."
They hugged.
As Isa turned toward the door, she noticed Gabi collecting empty glasses from the dining table.
"Good night," Isa said to the room.
"Good night!" Sam called.
"Get home safe," Paolo added.
Gabi looked up.
"Good night, Isa."
"Good night, Gabi."
Outside, the air had cooled.
Isa walked toward the subway with her hands tucked into her jacket pockets. The streets were quieter now, though the restaurants remained busy and the occasional car passed with music playing through its open windows.
She thought about the week ahead.
There were emails to answer, a meeting on Monday, groceries to put away, and a call to make to her mother about Sunday dinner.
She wondered whether Nico would have eaten all the sinigang before she arrived.
Her phone buzzed.
The group chat had become active.
Paolo had sent a photograph of Mara blowing out her candles. Sam had replied with an unflattering close-up of Paolo. Mara was threatening to remove everyone from the chat.
Isa smiled and kept walking.
It had been an ordinary Saturday.
She would remember it differently later.
