I can’t deny it. Moving out of this house was extremely sad.
It’s been my home for more than 20 years.
And the idea that this will be someone else’s home, pains me.
However, when I think about it, this house hadn’t been my home ever since we left for Canada. Even if it was the same exact house, it wasn’t my home anymore. I didn’t have my room (I slept at my parent’s) Mom won’t come out of their room to ask who wants to come with her to the grocery. Dad won’t be walking around shirtless looking for the most recent thing he has lost. Glenn won’t be sitting next to me at the dinner table. And Faye’s heavy steps would not come down the stairs anymore.
So even if I stayed there from August to October, in those three months, I still felt homesick.
But nevertheless, the idea of moving out was sad.
This house has been filled with our childhood memories. I’ve seen it evolve from being a 2-bedroom bungalow, to a 5-bedroom two-storey house. It’s been a home for a number of titos and titas, lolos and lolas, and few extended family. And now we are letting it go.
Moving on is good, I’d tell myself.
My family’s happy in Canada.
I’ll be happy in Makati.
I’m growing up and letting go is a part of it.