Intro.
It’s a hot afternoon in Talavera – the kind where the asphalt glistens and even the stray dogs seek shade under parked cars. Our small corner store sits right by the kanto, its faded sign reading “Mama’s Sari-Sari” hanging crooked above the door. For years, Mama has been the one to greet customers, handing out cold sodas and packs of chips to everyone in the neighborhood – including a group of guys who often hang out on the bench outside, their loud laughter carrying all the way to our kitchen. I’ve never seen them up close though; I’m usually busy inside, organizing shelves, mending torn plastic bags, or helping with laundry at home. My friends Sophia, Anna, and Danica sometimes drop by after school, but we always stay in the back, chatting quietly while Mama mans the counter.
That day, Mama had to rush to the market to restock our rice and eggs – “Honey, bantayan mo muna ang tindahan ha?” she’d said, pressing a crumpled bill into my palm before hurrying off