Dear Lola

Dear Lola,

I don’t know when letters went out of style, but today, I felt like writing one. Maybe because there are things I’ve been meaning to say and the best way I know how is to write them down.

There is something I wish to tell you — I grew up not knowing what it felt like to have a Lola (grandmother).

My father’s mother died when I was very young — too young to form real memories, only fragments: a black-and-white photo tucked behind a cabinet mirror, a soft hand I might have held once, stories told by my father in past tense. My mother’s mother, on the other hand, lived far away in the province. We saw her once a year, usually during town fiestas or Christmas, and even then, the conversations were brief. Polite and distant.

She passed away in her sleep when I was 12. I remember the call, my mother and uncles and aunties packing clothes in a small maleta (luggage), ready for a 12-hour trip to the province to arrange the wake. The house felt suddenly colder. But I don’t remember crying. I don’t remember loss. I suppose you cannot lose someone you never really had the chance to know.

Growing up, I would hear classmates and friends talk about their Lolas with such affection — how their Lola cooked their favorite food every time they came home from school; how their Lola slipped coins into their pockets when their parents weren’t looking, how their Lola prayed for them, fiercely, nightly, by name.

They spoke of a warmth and love that was softer than a mother’s but just as deep.

I never knew that kind of love. I never knew the feeling of being called apo (grandchild) with fondness or being held by wrinkled hands that always seemed to be either cooking or praying. And as I grew older, I simply made peace with it. Some people grow up without fathers. Some without siblings. I, I thought, grew up without Lolas.

But when I met you? I was already a grown man.

It was 2017. Trish and I were still dating. I was nervous in the way you are when you know your presence at a family lunch might be scrutinized. I expected the usual questions: Where do you work? What are your plans in life? Are you worthy of my granddaughter?

But the first thing you said to me was, “Ay, ikaw pala ‘yun. Kumain ka na ba? (So, it was you. Have you eaten?)”

That was our beginning.

And what a beginning it was.

From the start, you were warm. You made me feel like I had always belonged and was truly welcome. You did not hold back your personality. You were funny, sassy and unafraid to say exactly what was on your mind.

But there was also something deeply thoughtful about you. You noticed things. You remembered details.

You are always asking about my health. Specifically: my cholesterol. “Apo, okay pa ba ang mga kinakain mo? (Grandson, are you eating well?),” you would ask, concerned, even as you passed another serving of food to my plate. I’m still not sure if you’re trying to help me or kill me with kindness.

But I think you really like me.

You laugh at my jokes, even the ones I don’t mean to be funny. Your laugh comes from the chest — it really feels like a hug. I remember that one Christmas when I sang karaoke, off-key, a little too loud, a little too embarrassing. And yet you clapped. You even asked me to sing another song. Since then, whenever we visit, you sometimes jokingly request an encore. Your way of saying: I see you. I enjoy you. You’re part of this family.

And what I’ve learned is this: just because something didn’t come in childhood doesn’t mean it can’t come later. Some things arrive when you’re old enough to appreciate them.

Over the years, I’ve come to know more of your layers. You are the Lola I never had growing up. Even though I didn’t come into your life until adulthood, it never felt like I came in late. It always felt like I had known you since I existed.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning about love at this stage in life. It doesn’t always begin in the places we expect. Sometimes, it enters subtly, like a plate placed in front of you at a dinner table. No fanfare. Just food made with care. It finds you in laughter, in cholesterol warnings, in karaoke requests.

Whenever we visit now, I always look forward to seeing you. To hearing your stories about you and Lolo — you, being the chaste princess and Lolo as Lancelot — dashing, charming. To sitting near you, even when no words are exchanged. To hearing you say, “Kumanta ka ulit. (Sing once more).”

That’s the thing about your love — it’s felt in the small things. In gestures, in laughter, in the way you remember.

I didn’t grow up with a Lola. But maybe that was just God’s way of saving the experience for a time when I could really see it for what it was. Not just a missing piece filled, but a blessing given, right on time.

And so, I wrote this letter to thank you and to tell you that I see it now. All of it.

What a gift it’s been, to be loved by you.

Love, Ivan.

☐ ☐ ☐ ☐ ☐

Ivan Jeff C. Soberano is an engineer, educator and entrepreneur. He writes about growth, grit and the quiet moments that shape us. This is his latest piece for DAILY TRIBUNE.