My friends often talked to me about their dysfunctional families. Me, being the private person that I am, would be contented listening to their woes and giving a comforting hug whenever they needed one. Although, inside my head, I would be smiling sardonically. Our family’s story would bring the DYS in dysfunction. My family’s story would put a shame to all those cheesy Mexican telenovelas that Pinoys love to watch. It’s so cheesy that I think if I ever decide to tell anyone, they would probably think I’m making it all up. My Great-Grandparents are separated. My Grandparents are separated. Soon, my parents will be separated. I sometimes wonder if I would also end up separated.

The Paternal Side

For as far as I can remember, my paternal Grandfather have always lived with a different family. He and his other kids would often visit us at home during Sundays. Sundays remained the family day despite the crazy family we had. Technically, his kids are my aunts and uncle, but we played with each other like cousins. Thinking about it now, I’m surprised about how everything seemed casual. They would arrive a little before lunch time, and would mano to my Lola Llena when they see her. The eldest of my Lolo Harry’s other kids is just a few years older than me and I regarded her as my ate. We would play with my dolls up until my Mom calls us downstairs for lunch. My Lola is a bit prejudiced towards them, but she was never rude. She even gave them Christmas gifts sometimes. Last year my Lolo committed suicide. He jumped off the ledge on our veranda in the 3rd floor, right in front of my room, and I was there to see it. He stood on a chair, held on to the railings to balance himself, then he jumped. There was a loud thump, and I remember my dad shouting in panic. My brother called for an ambulance, I ran downstairs. I held on to my Lolo’s head to keep him from moving. The ambulance arrived and he was taken away. I was left there, staring at the blood that spewed from his mouth. I don’t know if it was because of regret or emptiness or whatever excuse he had. For the first time, I almost hated him. I felt it was a selfish move. But that was my Lolo, he loved the drama.

That week almost all of our relatives abroad traveled back to Manila to attend his wake. I tried to make myself unavailable. I offered to be on watch duty in the house instead. I cooked the food at home, to be taken to church, which is then served to the guests. I cleaned the house, and ignored all fears of being haunted by my Lolo’s soul. His memories irritated me. His wake ran for over a week. I only went there twice. Once, because my favorite uncle practically dragged me there. The second time was for the burial.

The Maternal Side

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