The Distance Between Then and Now

**Ten Years Earlier**

"You can set that box in the corner," Dr. Hizon shouted over her shoulder as she clamored into their new home, carrying a stack of books.

Ellie sat on the porch, watching as her parents emptied the U-Haul they had spent most of the day traveling in. She looked up at the paint peeling off the railing of their new home and sighed, already missing the concrete steps outside their apartment in San Francisco.

“Ellie, anak ko (my child), please help get some things out of the truck," her mom said as she walked back out the front door.

Imelda Hizon was a short, stout woman with kind eyes and an even kinder smile. After moving to the United States following medical school, she met her husband, Angelo, while working at UCSF Medical Center, where he was already employed as a nurse. The two bonded over graduating from the same university in the Philippines and immigrating to the U.S. for work.

Ellie often wondered if it bothered her father that he had to take orders from his wife both at work and at home. When asked, Mr. Hizon made it clear that he not only loved taking orders from his wife, but wished they had met in college so he could have started taking orders from her sooner. They were a match made in heaven—something most kids would be grateful for—but to ten-year-old Ellie, their constant displays of affection were disgusting.

Ellie's parents were loving and supportive, determined to move away from their own upbringings. They always encouraged her to be her own person and to try different extracurricular activities. She had been enrolled in dance, swimming, tennis, and piano—none of which she excelled at. To make up for the disappointment she felt in being so extraordinarily unsuccessful, she made it her mission to excel academically.

From the moment she could remember, Ellie strived to make her parents proud by following in her mother's footsteps. Though she knew they would be proud regardless of what she chose to do, she could sense the extra pride they wordlessly expressed whenever she said she wanted to become a doctor. Her mom stood a little taller—as tall as she could, being 4'11"—and smiled a little brighter at community parties when other adults asked what Ellie wanted to be.

Ellie huffed as she jumped up to help her parents. She rummaged through the boxes in the U-Haul until she found the one labeled "ELLIE." Pulling out a photo, she stared at the image of three girls making funny faces at the camera—Ellie in the middle, with her best friends Maya and Chelsea on either side. Written on the back were the words: 'Good luck, Ellie-bell! We love you and miss you already!'

The reality of moving hundreds of miles away from everything and everyone she knew began to sink in.

She thought back to the conversation her mother had with her months earlier about uprooting their lives and moving from San Francisco to a town just outside of Seattle, Washington, at the end of the school year. Dr. Hizon had been offered a better-paying job—along with her husband—and decided a change of scenery would be nice after living in the city for so long. Both of her parents had grown up in remote provinces and longed to return to a quieter, less urban life.

As Ellie lugged the box out of the truck, she noticed her parents chatting with another couple—and what she assumed was their son—at the end of the driveway.

The woman was tall and slender, which made her look even taller standing next to Ellie's petite mother. The man beside her was also tall and appeared slightly older than his wife. Gray streaks ran through his dark hair, adding to his charm. The boy stood about the same height as Ellie. His fair skin had the faintest hint of a summer tan, and tiny freckles were sprinkled across his nose. His shaggy, dirty-blonde hair fell just above his eyebrows, which lifted slightly as his blue eyes met hers.

"Ellie, honey, come over here and meet our neighbors," her mom called.

Ellie set the box down in the grass and walked over.

“These are the Warrens," her dad added.

"Well, aren't you a cute thing!" Mrs. Warren exclaimed as Ellie approached.

“I'm Angie, this is my husband Ted, and our son Carson," she said, motioning toward the boy.

“Hi," Ellie replied in a small, shy voice.

“Carson is your age, Ellie. Isn't that nice? You'll be going to the same school in the fall—and Angie works there in the office," her mother explained.

Ellie nodded, barely processing her words.

She made eye contact with Carson and immediately felt self-conscious. Looking away quickly, she focused on the grass beneath her feet, suddenly intent on counting the blades. They stood awkwardly, avoiding eye contact while their parents continued exchanging pleasantries.

When it became clear the conversation wasn't ending anytime soon, Ellie walked back toward the box she had left behind. She picked it up and started toward the house.

“Carson, go help Ellie carry that box! It's too big for such a small girl," Mrs. Warren called.

Before Ellie could protest, Carson half-walked, half-jogged over and took the box from her hands. Unsure what to do, she glanced back at her parents.

“It's okay, anak, let him help you," her mom called, already turning back to her conversation.

They walked awkwardly into the house and into the living room, where Ellie directed Carson to set the box down. Back home, Ellie had befriended boys at school, but outside of that, she only ever spent time with Maya and Chelsea. She was so painfully shy and awkward that she didn't know how—or if—she should start a conversation with her new neighbor.

They stood in silence for a few moments.

“What's that?" Carson asked, pointing to a small wooden board sticking out of the box.

“That's sungka," Ellie replied.

“What's a... sungka?" he asked, attempting the unfamiliar word.

Ellie giggled at his effort, which earned her a small frown and a crinkle of his nose that bunched up his freckles.

“It's a game," she explained, digging through the box until she found a small bag of seashells. "Do you want to play?"

She placed the board on the ground and began filling each pit with seven shells.

Carson eyed it skeptically, as if unsure how a wooden board and shells could possibly be a game—but curiosity flickered in his expression.

“Sure," he said, sitting across from her.

She explained the rules and pointed out the different parts of the board. As he played, she watched him closely, biting back a laugh when he tried to pronounce the word bahay. His nose crinkled every time he attempted the Tagalog words, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

Ellie found his efforts cute.

Found him cute.

And after what felt like hours of playing, laughing, and translating Tagalog words, she found herself thinking,

I hope Carson Warren and I become friends.