Temporary Home

Rain pours down in heavy sheets as I step off the plane, the cold wind carrying the scent of wet asphalt and jet fuel. After a long journey from California, I finally arrive in Manila, where airport lights blur against the slick pavement. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the steady drumming of rain echoes through the terminal as I rush to board my connecting flight to Cagayan de Oro—our hometown. The storm follows me through the night, lightning flashing across the sky as the plane descends. Below, the city glistens under the relentless downpour, streets slick and shining, welcoming me home in a curtain of rain.

It has been 25 years since I last set foot in this country—a place that once held my first cries, my earliest days. I was fortunate to be adopted by my loving American parents, who gave me a new life and endless opportunities. But my story began far from the world I grew up in. In 1999, at just 10 years old, my mother left me at an orphanage in Cagayan de Oro. I was helpless, too young to understand why she made that decision, but old enough to feel the weight of abandonment. I never got answers, only a space where the love and care of a mother should have been. That moment shaped the course of my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined, leaving me with questions and a deep ache that followed me for years.

Now, after all these years, I return to the land of my birth, carrying those questions like a heavy burden. The past that I’ve tried so hard to bury is pulling me back, and as I step foot in this place again, I wonder if I’ll finally find the closure I’ve been searching for, or if the pain will just be waiting for me, unchanged.

I don’t want to come back here. I have had bad memories of this country. But I received a weird letter from my estranged biological mother 2 weeks ago. And the first part of the letter said to come here to the Philippines and visit her hometown of Cagayan de Oro.

As I sit inside the plane, the low hum of the engines vibrating beneath me, I clutch the letter from my biological mother in my hands. The paper is slightly crumpled from the countless times I’ve unfolded and refolded it, my fingers tracing the uneven creases.

Taking a deep breath, I smooth it out on my lap and begin to read—read—the words she wrote. Each sentence feels heavier than the last, carrying the weight of a past I barely remember and a truth I’m not sure I’m ready to face. The ink, slightly faded, bleeds emotions I can’t quite decipher—regret, desperation, maybe even longing.

Outside, the plane slices through thick clouds, rain streaking against the window. But inside, I am trapped in a storm of my own, caught between the life I’ve known and the past that is calling me back.

Dearest Daughter,

This is me, Rosalia—your biological mother. I am so sorry that it has taken me this long to write to you. By the time you read this letter, I will have already left this world.

There is so much I want to say, but above all, I need you to know how deeply sorry I am for letting you go. Leaving you at the orphanage was the hardest thing I have ever done, and not a day has passed that I have not thought of you. Life was unbearably difficult back then. We were so poor, and each night, I cried as I watched you go to bed hungry, knowing I could not give you the life you deserved.

You were just a child, innocent and full of dreams, and I couldn’t even afford to send you to school.

I wanted more for you—more than the hardships and suffering I could offer. So, with a heavy heart, I made the painful choice to give you away, believing that in doing so, I was giving you a chance at a better future. I know this may be impossible for you to understand or accept, and perhaps you are reading this with anger, resentment, or pain in your heart. If I were in your place, I would feel the same way.

But, my dearest child, if you can find it in your heart to grant me one last wish, please come to Cagayan de Oro. Visit our old home in Barangay Carmen. It may not mean much to you now, but it was once filled with love, even amid our struggles. I have made preparations for your return—a homecoming celebration, a small way to make it up to you, even if I am no longer there to welcome you myself.

With all the love I was never able to show you,

Rosalia



I cried the entire time I read the letter. Hot tears blurred the ink as I clutched the fragile paper, my hands trembling with emotions I couldn’t even name. How could she just leave me like that? How could she abandon me and then, after all these years—after she was already gone—expect me to come back and face the past? It felt so unfair like she had reached out from beyond the grave just to stir up the pain I had spent a lifetime trying to bury.

I didn’t realize when exhaustion overtook me. Somewhere between my grief and my anger, my body gave in, and I drifted into uneasy sleep, the letter still resting on my lap.

The next thing I knew, the overhead speakers crackled to life, and the captain’s voice echoed through the cabin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just landed in Cagayan de Oro. Welcome.”

I blinked against the harsh cabin lights, my mind still foggy from sleep, my heart heavy with the weight of everything I had just read. Outside the window, the city stretched beneath the gray morning sky—my mother’s hometown. A place I had no memory of, yet somehow, it had been calling me back all along.

I don’t know what awaits me here. I don’t know what I’ll find or how it will change me. But for closure—for the sake of finally putting the past to rest—I will do this.

I will be okay.