In Over Her Head

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“I think you should just move back home, dear. You look like you haven’t been feeding yourself well,” my mother purposely says to me over lunch that weekend.

My mom has this perennial case of pointing out what’s wrong with me ever since I made the decision to move out of the house two years ago. I don’t know if severing the umbilical cord with her youngest child made her so touchy-feely about things, but it’s been grating on my nerves since then. If it were up to me, I’d have severed all ties completely, but I compromised to be with the family every Saturday for lunch just to pacify her. I don’t know why she doesn’t pick on Ate Tina and Kuya Arvin for not being present in these “sacred gatherings,” but I don’t want another endless monologue about the travails and dangers of living alone.

“I just have a lot of work going on, Ma. Don’t worry about it.” But of course she’d fuss about it. She always does.

“Here, have some more lasagna.” She practically scoops a huge chunk of pasta from the baking pan and dumps it on my plate. “I seriously don’t understand what’s gotten you so busy that you can’t even feed yourself properly.”

I roll my eyes. Mom can be so overdramatic sometimes.

“I really think you should—”

“Lorena, your daughter is pushing thirty years old. I think it’s past time we stop holding her hand and let her make her own decisions. Besides, you of all people should know about having too much work,” says my dad.

Mom just sits there, her overprotective instincts battling with my dad’s logic. She exhales a breath and slumps in defeat. “Oh, all right, fine. Really, Tonio, I thought you’d back me up here.”

Dad smiles reassuringly at my mom, then winks at me. “Our daughter is already a grown woman. If she’s going to encounter some problems along the way, we’re here for her.”

That’s my dad, the savior.

“I saw you on TV last week, Ma. How was your guesting stint?” I ask, stuffing myself with lasagna, which is just absolutely the bomb.

My mom is a noted Economics professor at a well-known state university and she’s always being tapped by local networks to comment about news items in politics and the economy. Dad, on the other hand, is having the time of his retirement life co-managing a small antique shop with his friend, Tito Rey.

A lot of the people who know me and who have seen my parents often comment at how I resemble both at certain angles. I guess you can say I’ve gotten specific features from each of them (like my slightly chinita eyes from my mom, my dad’s pert nose), unlike other kids who distinctly look like either parent. The only stark contrast is my wavy locks that seem to have a mind of its own.

Mom gets into an animated talk about her TV guesting and my mind wanders, thinking about how foreign our house feels to me after not living under this roof for two years. My older siblings still live with my mom and dad, primarily because they have their own transportation while I’m still on commute mode. Renting a condo near the office is a lot more practical than winging through the perils of rush hour from Caloocan to Ortigas.

I am back in my room an hour after lunch, lying on my old and very much familiar bed since my teenage years. My room is like a huge scrapbook of memories, from the framed pictures, old school textbooks, and even some memorabilia from high school intramurals and college org weeks.

My eyes fall on my college yearbook that’s still on my old desk. I don’t have to flip through those pages to remember page 475—where an old picture of the barkada is immortalized on that page. I’ll never forget those happy faces, and ironically, that one person who gave me my first and biggest heartbreak.

So apparently the day of reckoning has arrived. And I’m not prepared for it one bit.