Dinner sat heavy on the table, the kind of meal that should’ve been comforting, but wasn’t. Dad had gone all out, like he was trying to anchor us in some kind of normalcy: sinigang with tender chunks of pork, the broth tangy with tamarind and steaming like the humid air outside. A bowl of freshly cooked rice sat at the center, the grains fluffy and perfect, and there was a plate of fish he’d fried golden brown, the crisp scent mingling with the faint metallic tang of his worry.
I stared at the food like it might leap off the plate and answer the question I couldn’t bring myself to ask. My stomach churned, though not from hunger. Dad kept pushing the spoon around in his bowl, clinking against the sides every few seconds. He was trying to eat. Trying to pretend like he wasn’t breaking the n
