Growing up in a corner lot house in the city, I remember being surrounded by adults, by life in all its busy, noisy forms. The house wasn’t ours but belonged to a wealthy family who ran a business, and it was home not only to us but also to the workers from that business. My mother was the housemaid, which meant that we stayed there together. Despite the circumstances, that house and the lives within it shaped my childhood.
The house was a place of constant activity—a garden bustling with dogs and cats, a mix of work and home that somehow fit together in one place. It was here that I grew up through storms and seasons, and it was here that I experienced the devastating floods of Ondoy and Milenyo. Ondoy was the worst of them, the floodwaters so deep that we had to seek refuge at a neighbour’s three-storey house. And then there was Milenyo, memorable to me because it meant no school for a week and no electricity. Another typhoon hit us as well, though the name escapes me now; I only remember the waters lingering for days, filling our home and memories.
As the years passed, the house grew older, and so did we. Changes came first with the people who lived there. The family’s business eventually closed, and the workers who had become part of our lives drifted away, one by one, until only my mother, one of the owner’s daughters, and I remained. Eventually, the daughter also left for the US, and it was just Mama and me, along with a few loyal dogs and cats.
With the emptier house came new ideas. My mother decided to start a small business—a few pairs of slippers for sale, then some candies, and before long, we had a sari-sari store that grew into a part of our everyday life. But time has a way of moving things forward: the house was sold, and we nearly had to leave. Thankfully, one of the owner’s daughters chose to buy it and keep us there. She returned from the US with her family, reopening the family business and renovating the house. The outside still carried the same familiar look, but inside, the house was transformed into something sleek and modern, a version of itself I hardly recognised.
But even more striking was how the house felt—its sounds and life fading over time. I left that house last year, without any plans of going back. My nephews, who used to help at the store, moved on too. The dogs and cats, one by one, grew old and passed away. The last time I visited, I could feel the house settling into a kind of silence, a space where barks, meows, laughter, and conversation were slowly replaced by emptiness.
Sometimes I think of my mother, still there with the sari-sari store that keeps her occupied. On weekends, the owners stay, but most days, it’s just Mama with three dogs and three cats—where once there were ten dogs and nine cats. I wonder if she feels what I felt when I last visited. Does she feel the house growing quieter? I don’t know.
Maybe this is just the way things are now. We’ve all grown up, with lives we need to live and figure out. The house, with all its noise and warmth, is a memory—a place that held both my best and hardest times. I’ll always remember it as my childhood, but the need to move forward is stronger. The house will change, as all things do. For now, what matters is that my mother is okay, and I’m able to give back to her in some small way for everything she’s given me.