It was Sunday. Molave Street was bright with the noontime sun. The doors of the neighborhood homes were wide open, letting the wind sweep through the insides. The sound of laughter echoed with the beeps of cars passing by, and children fearlessly running beside the curve of the road, untouched by the weight of the world, unburdened by worries of an adult.
I could hear them from where I sat, separated only by the blurry plastic screen of the sari-sari store I was keeping watch over. Occasional murmurs slipped in but were never understood.
The silence on my side and the joy of the other felt uncomfortable. The noise felt so far away despite the short distance, like I was only meant to listen. Envy lingered in my mind for a moment before vanishing as the first customer of the day approached.
“Unsay ato angkol?” I gave a practiced, amiable smile.
It was Friday. She said we were going somewhere nice and that I had to wear my best clothes. I stared at the pile of clothes on the floor, looking like a mountain of rags, and settled on one. I guess a hand-me-down faded red dress with fewer patches could work as one. It smelled like old, wet paper, but I have never worn it. I never knew I was allowed to wear a dress.
“Inig abot nato didto dapat mag binuotan ka,” she said as she fixed my collar. It was folded inside.
“Opo,” I said like an automatic response, staring at her. There was a curve on her lips I had never seen. Or maybe never directed at me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed easily. Maybe I should have asked questions. But she smiled at me after years of scowls and frowns, and disgusted scoffs.