No one’s left for Christmas Eve

It was Christmas Eve, and I was with my three siblings at the table, trying to make a simple dessert. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, preparing chicken for noche buena. My two aunts were busy with the vegetable rolls, and my two uncles were outside grilling barbecue. Reflecting on our situation back then, we were nine people living in a two-story building in Quezon City.

The house had four rooms and one bathroom. It was a little crowded, but we never felt alone there. Even in the mornings when my siblings and I would go to school, my aunts would return to the house after their night duties at the hospital. And at night, when everyone was ready to sleep, you could hear my dad and uncles outside, drinking beer and laughing heartily with our neighbors. It was a never-peaceful community that surrounded me, but it made me more aware of having a big family.

I’m the youngest among the three siblings. To be more specific, I’m the youngest in the house—the baby of the family. In the morning, Mom would just let me sit in the living room, watching my favorite “Detective Conan” episodes and enjoying my milk, while my siblings, busy with chores, would look at me with sharp eyes. I could almost read their minds saying, “You should also be doing chores, you little brat.” But my little mind thought the opposite, still focused on the television, wondering about the next case Conan would handle.

In the afternoon, when my aunts would be awake, I’d be by their side, trying to put makeup on my face, feeling like a superstar. They’d also be busy putting curls in my hair. At night, I’d go outside to be with my uncles. They’d tell me to dance in front of them and our neighbors, tricking me with the promise of money to buy candy. As a kid, I would dance like crazy for that candy.

Life in the city was hard. My dad had been a jeepney driver since he returned to the country for good, after trying his luck abroad. It was never easy, he would say, and even the money he earned was barely enough to feed us for a day. My paternal grandfather, who lived in the province, offered my parents an opportunity. He was migrating to another country and needed someone to take care of his house. Without hesitation, my parents accepted the offer. However, this decision came with its own set of challenges. My eldest brother was already in his second year at one of the country’s biggest universities. This situation forced my parents to make a difficult decision; to let my brother stay in Quezon City with my aunties and uncles, while the rest of us moved to the province.

From nine to five—that was the quickest transition I’d never expected. Life in the province was somewhat peaceful; there was no air pollution, only fresh air. Instead of high buildings, there were green trees and farms. Months of stay turned into years, and by the time I turned 13, I began to observe and understand things more clearly. My dad was never perfect; even back in the city, he was abusive, which made us grow up in fear of him. This fear especially surfaced whenever he was drunk, leaving my siblings and me traumatized.

Things reached a breaking point when my brother, the third child, dared to talk back to my dad. He was labeled the black sheep of the family because he was the first to confront our dad. His rebellion didn’t stop there; he began taking money from my parents and even tried to leave the house, only to return after a week or two. And just like that, we went from being a family of five to four.

I came back from school, exhausted, trying to get some sleep after a test in my third year of high school. Before I could rest my head on the pillow, I heard my parents shouting at each other, upset because they didn’t know where my sister, the second child, was. She was in her third year of college at that time. When she turned 18, she tried to introduce her boyfriend to my parents, hoping to convince my father, who was vehemently opposed to any man getting close to his daughters. The moment my father saw them holding hands, he immediately rejected the idea of their “love,” refusing to listen to my sister’s feelings for her boyfriend. Just like with my brother, they thought she was also hardheaded and rebellious. My parents’ lives nearly collapsed when my sister got pregnant at the age of 20.

It’s Christmas Eve again. Here I am, trying to eat the frozen food Mom left on the table, knowing I’d be arriving home late from church. I sit alone at the table, patting my cat, and think of calling my eldest brother. But he’s busy at work, his shift not ending until the next morning. I also try to call my sister, but she’s busy preparing for noche buena with her family. My last hope is my other brother, yet like the others, he’s occupied with something that night. I’m too shy to wake up my parents; they’re not so young anymore and staying up late isn’t good for their health.

So here I am, eating carbonara alone with my cats, watching a random episode of “Detective Conan” on television. But now, the once lively chatter of a million voices has been replaced with silence.

Clarisse Eugenio, 20, is a physical therapy student at Mariano Marcos State University who harbors a passion for writing.