Fifteen Minutes and a World Away

When the cab driver pulled up, I saw our next-door neighbors burning their trash again. Thanks for the pollution, I thought. Between that, the smoke-belching jeepneys in the street, and the bags of garbage scattered about carelessly, I worry about Jax's health here.

Ryan paid the driver and stepped out, opening the car door on my side. Wordlessly, he pulled out his keys and opened the creaky chipboard door to our apartment.

"Hey Ry," I said hesitantly, using my foot to close the door behind me. "You okay?"

He didn't say anything. He sat on the shabby couch and stared at his phone intently.

Sighing, I made my way to the bedroom and gently put Jax down in his crib. "Hey buddy, you up for some nap time?" He blinked slowly. "I love you, Jax," I whispered before straightening up.

I looked around, my hands jammed in my pockets. The room was almost bare: just a mattress on a secondhand bed frame, Jax's crib, and a built-in closet made of plywood. The walls were painted a dull yellow; chunks of it were peeling from the wall. I've asked Ryan to fix it — what if Jax manages to eat the paint chips? — but we haven't gotten around to it yet. "Once we have some extra cash, we'll take care of it," Ryan said back then, kissing my forehead. Of course, with rent, food, baby formula, and pediatrician visits, money's hard to come by these days.

I closed the windows to keep out the smoke of burning trash. I sat on the sagging mattress, listening to Jax's breathing and trying to block out the roaring motors of the tricycles outside.

My parents lived just fifteen minutes from us, but it seemed like a world away. Needless to say, I haven't had much cause to entertain guests here.