I was eleven at the time and had no say in the matter, as any child of that age does; my opinion and protests did not matter to her. She was lonely; a grieving widow with a daughter to raise. I acquiesced.

My first visit to my mother’s country of birth came four months after my Dad passed away on February 20. It was my summer break. I had missed out on a lot of school since the night he died. The months following his death were a blur – for both of us. Life was sadder, scarier, simpler, without Daddy. And all of a sudden we were on a plane to go to an island I had only read about in a book called “Let’s Visit the Philippines”.That being my only point of reference, I imagined a land sans cars and gasoline-powered vehicles and in their place, carabaos and tiny boats as means of transportation. I’m glad I was proven wrong!

We couldn’t afford to go back to the states for yearly vacations like many Filipinos do, so we settled for one six-week trip in 1984. We were supposed to be gone for eight weeks but I got homesick. I had fallen madly in love with Manila.

In 1997, I buried my beloved mother. She suffered a massive stroke five days before her 67th birthday. Whatever hopes I kept of ever going back to the States were crushed. But God has a way of doing the impossible and in 2006, the office sent me to LA to attend a conference.

I haven’t stopped thinking about how great it felt to finally go home. Even for just a week. From then on, I’ve thought of nothing but going back.