Chapter 33: Building a Better Home

April 2014 arrived with the summer heat curling off the rice fields and the scent of mangoes heavy in the air. In the heart of the rural province where our family lived, the rhythm of the season was familiar—early mornings filled with the sound of chickens, afternoons warm enough to lull you to sleep, and evenings that shimmered with the sound of cicadas. But to me, it felt like something more. With this second chance at life, I wasn't just going to change myself. This summer, I was going to change the life we lived, starting with the house I once took for granted.

Our house was made of cement blocks, a sturdy rectangle with bare concrete floors and a rusted galvanized roof. A far cry from the glossy dream homes I used to scroll past on TikTok in my old life, but it had potential. I remembered the struggles: the way the rain sometimes goes through the roof during typhoons, how Mama had to cook in the heat without ventilation, the way the walls were bare and gray and never felt quite like home. But now I had an advantage. I had seen the future. I had watched countless home renovation videos, DIY tutorials, and budget-saving hacks that I never thought I'd use. Now, those bits of knowledge became tools.

I started with the kitchen.

"Mama," I said one humid morning as she shelled mung beans, "let's build open shelves above the sink. It'll help us organize, and we won't need to reach into those cramped cabinets anymore."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And you plan to become a carpenter overnight?"

"With some help from Kuya Marco and dad, yes," I said with a grin.

With help from my older cousin who did small carpentry jobs, we gathered repurposed wood and sanded it down. I painted the shelves white using leftover paint from a neighbor's project. Then I arranged the pots, pans, and dry goods in glass jars I saved from used food containers. The difference was immediate. Mama no longer had to bend over to find spices or dig through drawers.

Next came the walls.

Inspired by what I remembered seeing online, I made a natural limewash using limestone dust from the nearby quarry, water, and a touch of salt. With a few brushes and some patient effort, we turned our dull gray walls into warm beige tones that caught the afternoon light beautifully.

Jean and Jasmine came over one weekend to help decorate.

"It's like you turned this into a big project!" Jasmine gasped, sticking adhesive wall decals shaped like vines above the window.

"We need plants," Jean added. "Low-maintenance ones. You know, for aesthetic."

We added potted herbs to the kitchen and repotted Mama's old aloe vera in repainted tin cans. The house was beginning to feel brighter, more alive.

But I didn't stop there.

Using old scrap wood and a video I remembered watching in my past life, I guided Papa and my older cousin in building a multipurpose bench by the front door—for sitting, storing shoes, and hanging umbrellas. It was simple but efficient. "Functional beauty," I called it.

Then came the bedroom upgrades. I took it upon myself to reconfigure the sleeping arrangements. As the youngest, I used to get the least say, but this time, I spoke up. I built hanging shelves for everyone's books and school supplies. I repainted our shared dresser with bright blue and yellow patterns, inspired by the provincial jeepney designs I loved as a child.

My own room was a project of love.

I rearranged it using the principles of feng shui I had read about before. I made a DIY headboard from old plywood wrapped in fabric Mama had tucked away for future curtains. Jasmine helped me with the curtains, and Jean brought in an old desk her family was discarding.

"Now you've got your own writing nook," she said.

I wrote more than ever, journaling by lamp light and sketching renovation plans for other parts of the house. I listed ideas in a notebook: tile the bathroom floor, build mosquito screens for the windows, create a clothesline system that could be pulled indoors during storms.

Then I turned my sights on outdoor improvements.

"We're going to tile the front porch," I told my family one afternoon.

Carlo, my older cousin, nearly dropped his mango shake. "Where are you getting tile money?"

"From the palengke sales," I said. "And a friend introduced someone selling secondhand tiles from a demolished resort. I already arranged things with them."

A week later, we were hammering and laying mismatched tiles like a mosaic. It turned out beautiful—quirky, colorful, and uniquely ours. When Mama stepped out barefoot that evening, she nearly cried.

"We've never had a porch like this," she whispered.

I hugged her. "Now we do."

With each renovation, our quality of life improved. We no longer argued about mess or tripped over clutter. Mama had more time to rest. Papa even started inviting neighbors over for merienda again.

One weekend, I used leftover plywood to build a foldable outdoor table for him. "You've always wanted a place to play cards outside," I reminded him. He taught me how to play that same evening, just like he used to before he got too tired from work.

And then there was our vegetable garden.

I remembered the drought that would come later in the year. So I pushed for early planting. Using a raised bed system I had seen in a Tiktok about urban farming, I created small compartments using hollow blocks we had lying around. We planted okra, alugbati, kamote tops, and eggplants. I taught Carlo how to mix soil with ash, compost, and rice hulls—a trick I remembered from a provincial agricultural expo video.

We reused water from laundry to irrigate the plants, something Mama was proud of. "Waste not," she said, amazed. Our harvest came quickly and healthy.

When we had extra, we sold them door-to-door, or Mama brought baskets of produce to my grandparents. The vegetables paid for our electricity in May. That month, we were able to save some money too.

I kept a log of every peso earned and spent, tracking savings. Mama was skeptical at first, but when she saw the savings add up, she started giving me parts of her salary to include in my budget book.

"I never thought we could manage this way," she said. "I always thought survival meant sacrifice."

"Now it means strategy," I replied.

It wasn't all easy. There were days when Papa would grumble about all the noise, or when my mother resisted change. But they always came around when they saw the results. When we replaced the squeaky bathroom door with a salvaged sliding one, even my skeptical Tito Berto was impressed.

One evening, we sat on the porch together, sipping gulaman and watching the fireflies. The house glowed behind us, no longer a shell, but a true home.

"You know," Mama said, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were some kind of architect in your past life."

I smiled, heart full. "Maybe I was."

But really, I had just been someone who had once lived through this same life and failed to change it. Now, given the gift of time again, I was determined to do better.

That night I wrote in my journal:

"It's not about making a perfect life. It's about choosing progress, building beauty with what you have, and loving people enough to give them a better home."

The stars blinked overhead. Our cement house stood proud, patched and painted, still humble but full of heart.

This time, I wasn't just living in the past.

I was building our future.