I grew up in a home where “I love you” was never said. Not because it wasn’t felt, but because love in our household wore different clothes — it looked like waking up at 4 a.m. to pack lunches, or waiting up late to make sure you got home. We let our eye contact do the talking. The longer the glance, the deeper the emotion. That was our language.

Some families say “I love you” every day. In ours, love came in the form of packed baon, unsolicited advice and the rice being passed around the dinner table. “Kumain ka ng gulay, higupin mo ‘yung sabaw, palagi na lang fast food ang kinakain mo (Eat vegetables, drink the soup, you’re always eating fast food).” No hugs. No declarations. Just nags, and presence.

In recent years, though, something changed. Or maybe I changed. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s awareness, or maybe it’s time finally catching up with us. These days, when I go home and catch their eyes, I realize they’re not the same. There’s something quieter in them now. Something slower. Something softer. I used to look into those eyes for comfort. Now, I look into them and feel time moving too fast.

An hour away, but oceans apart

I noticed it first with my mom. Her eyes, once always sharp, now need longer pauses to adjust when I walk through the door. She blinks more, squints a little. She used to nag me whenever I didn’t finish my baon. Now, she doesn’t mind. Instead, she asks twice if I have a dish I’d like her to cook. My dad, too. His stare used to come with silent instruction. Now, it lingers — longer than usual — as if memorizing me before I leave again. He still jokes, though. That hasn’t changed. Sometimes he uses deep Tagalog terms I can’t even understand. One time, he called himself kakaning itik. Whatever that means.

I didn’t move far. Just from San Jose del Monte City in Bulacan to Quezon City. Twenty kilometers, not oceans apart. But life has a way of stretching short distances. I live closer to work, closer to meetings and things I convince myself are important. But every month that passes without a visit feels like a chapter closed without a final sentence. Traffic, deadlines, fatigue — excuses that feel valid until I realized they no longer are.

I rarely go home. And when I do, it feels like I’ve crossed time zones. My mom always cooks as if it’s a fiesta. My dad always steps outside before I arrive, pretending to sweep the driveway, but really just waiting. The house smells like comfort food and fabric softener. My old room still looks the same, except it’s cleaner, like they’re still waiting for me to come back and stay a while.

They ask about work. I give answers that are short, incomplete and designed to avoid follow-up questions. I talk like I’m running out of time, even when I’ve arrived precisely to slow down. I catch my dad watching me eat, asking me how I have gotten so fat. It doesn’t offend me, instead, it’s our chance to start a conversation. I catch my mom re-heating food from the fridge even though I told her I’m already full. The gestures are loud, even if our words are not.

In many ways, it feels like I’m an OFW, home from abroad. Except I live just an hour away. They never say it, but I see it in how they look at me, how they hold on longer during goodbyes, how they send me off with more than I could carry. Freshly picked vegetables from my mom’s backyard garden, and frozen fish and meat they wish I could find time to cook and avoid fast food. Every visit becomes a reunion. Every departure feels like a send-off.

Blinking back

And yet, I still struggle to say the things that matter. I still struggle to sit beside them and say, “I love you.” The words feel too heavy and too foreign for my tongue. I’ve told friends, “labyu pre!” isn’t hard. I’ve told strangers. But not them — not the ones who gave me everything.

Sometimes I wonder what it would sound like if I did say it. Would it feel too sudden? Too sentimental? Would it crack the carefully built silence that has defined us all these years?

But I’ve come to realize that time doesn’t ask for permission. It just moves. And lately, it’s moving faster. I think of all the weekends I traded for presentations. The holidays I cut short. The birthdays I missed. I tell myself I’m building something meaningful. But what is success if you have no one to come home to?

I think back to a moment from childhood. I was maybe 10. I was in a hospital, battling a UTI. My fever was continuously high, and my mom stayed by my side the whole night. She didn’t say much, just changed the towel on my forehead. When I opened my eyes in the middle of the night, she was still there, blinking slowly, eyes tired but steady. I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t know how. I just blinked back.

That’s what love looked like for us.

And now, as I sit in my apartment in the city, thinking of that night, I realize how much of life is lived in what goes unsaid. But some things deserve to be spoken, some moments call for words.

So, this is my beginning. Because love deserves to be heard. Not just seen. Not just implied.

Mom, Dad— I love you.

Thank you for everything.