It was raining again.
The kind of rain that soaks through sandals and runs in rivulets down the street, darkening the sky even in the middle of the morning. The province had announced class suspensions—everyone was told to stay indoors. But still, the therapy center hadn’t canceled. They expected my child to show up.
It was supposed to be my mother-in-law who would take them today. But with the wind picking up and the gutters starting to overflow, I couldn’t sit still. I slipped on a jacket and stepped out, deciding to make a quick trip to the neighborhood store. I needed smaller bills for fare—just in case. Might as well buy some rice. Maybe a pack of cigarettes too.
The store was damp and dim, the usual buzz of chismis replaced by the static of the old radio and the soft drumming of rain on the roof.
That’s when I saw him.
A familiar figure leaned by the counter—a sabungero from around the block. Fat now, noticeably so. He wore his blings like armor: rings on every finger, a thick chain drooping over his chest, and a watch that looked too expensive for the slippers on his feet.
“Nagtaba ka,” I remarked without malice.
He grinned, rubbing his stomach like it was some badge of honor. “Wala na kong trabaho,” he said, raising his arm to flex it, the gold catching what little light filtered through the rain.
No job—but still, all that shine.
I left the store with my small change, the rice bag cradled under one arm. By the time I got home, the sky was darker, angrier. I looked at my child, then at my mother-in-law who was ready to go—and I made the call.
Not today. Not in this storm.
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