Episode 29

Five years.

That's how long it's been since i left everything behind.

Since i last saw the sun rise over Manila's chaotic skyline.

Since i last heard my mother's gentle scolding, or my father's tired jokes after a long day.

Five years since i walked out of Raphael's life and chose a different future.

I still remember that night in painful clarity—the way he slept so peacefully, completely unaware that i was falling apart beside him.

The way i pressed my hand to my swollen belly, fighting the urge to wake him up and tell him everything.

But i didn't.

I made my choice.

For him.

For us.

I thought about all of that as i sat at the small dining table in our apartment in Shanghai, watching Sebastian draw with his crayons.

He was so focused, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth, brows furrowed in concentration.

"Mommy," he announced in perfect Mandarin, holding up the page. "Look! I drew you!"

I smiled despite the ache in my chest.

He'd drawn a stick figure with long hair, holding hands with a smaller one with spiky hair and a big, lopsided grin.

"That's beautiful, baby," I told him in Tagalog, switching effortlessly. "Ang galing mo talaga."

He giggled, pleased with himself, and replied in English: "Of course! I'm the best artist ever."

I couldn't help it.

I laughed.

He was so smart.

So talkative.

So… bibo, as my mom would've said.

He picked up languages like it was breathing.

Mandarin from his teachers and the neighbors. Tagalog from my stubborn insistence every day at home.

English from school and movies and the bedtime stories i read him in every language i could.

He was five years old, going on twenty.

And he was everything to me.

Raising him alone hadn't been easy.

There were nights he woke up crying, asking for someone he'd never met.

Nights i sat beside his bed, humming nonsense tunes with a shaking voice, pretending i wasn't crying too.

There were days i worked until i collapsed at my desk, balancing meetings with suppliers and negotiations with our partner factories.

Days i thought i would break, with no one to lean on but myself.

But we survived.

We did better than survive.

The business had grown beyond anything i'd dreamed when 8 first arrived in China.

I'd found trustworthy partners who respected my vision.

Our fragrances were stocked in boutique shops all over Shanghai and Beijing now.

Ironically, I still couldn't smell any of them.

But i had people i trusted who helped me.

I let them describe the scents. I let them be my nose.

My disability didn't stop me.

It only made me work harder.

But success was bittersweet.

Because no matter how well we did, no matter how many stores carried our brand, no matter how many magazines interviewed me as a "Filipina entrepreneur making waves in China"—

None of it changed the fact that my son didn't know his grandparents.

He didn't know the country where he was born.

He didn't know who his father was.

And that was my fault.

I'd avoided it for so long.

Telling myself it was for the best.

That they didn't need us complicating their lives.

That Raphael was happy in Oxford, fulfilling the dream I'd forced him to take.

Sometimes, I'd search his name late at night, my fingers trembling.

There were photos of him at medical conferences in Europe, of him standing in lecture halls with students.

He looked older.

More tired.

But still devastatingly handsome.

And always alone.

Never once had i seen a woman beside him.

A ring on his finger.

He'd stayed single all these years.

It should've comforted me.

It didn't.

It just made me ache worse.

"Mommy!"

Sebastian's voice cut through my thoughts.

He'd abandoned his drawing and run to my chair, wrapping his arms around my waist.

I blinked, pushing back the tears i hadn't realized were welling.

"Yes, baby?"

"Are you sad?"

I hesitated, then forced a smile.

I brushed his thick hair back from his forehead, so much like Raphael's it sometimes physically hurt to look at him.

"No. Just thinking."

He scowled, skeptical in that serious little way he'd perfected. "About work?"

"About family," I corrected gently.

He tilted his head. "We're family."

"Yes," I whispered, hugging him tighter. "You and me. Always."

That night, I sat by my laptop after putting him to bed.

He always fell asleep clutching his stuffed dinosaur.

The same one he'd had since he was a baby.

I watched him for a long time.

Then i opened a document titled Flights to Manila.

I'd been hovering over the "Book" button for weeks.

Maybe even months.

But i'd always closed the tab.

Too scared. Too ashamed.

Not tonight.

I pressed it.

I confirmed the tickets.

One adult. One child. One way.

Because it was time.

Time to stop running.

Time for my parents to meet their grandson.

Time for Sebastian to see where he was really from.

Time for me to face everything i'd left behind.

The next few days were a whirlwind of packing.

I tried to make it sound fun for him.

"We're going on a big adventure!"

"To see Grandma and Grandpa!"

He squealed every time i said it, asking question after question:

"Do they have toys?"

"Do they like stories?"

"Will they know my name?"

"Will they love me?"

That last one killed me.

I crouched down and held his face in my hands, looking him right in the eye.

"They will love you more than anything. Just like i do."

He beamed, satisfied with that answer.

I sold most of the furniture.

Packed what i needed into three suitcases.

All our clothes.

A few of my business files.

The drawings Sebastian had given me over the years.

The photo of me holding him in the hospital, both of us red-eyed and exhausted and broken and whole at the same time.

I didn't sleep the night before our flight.

I sat at the edge of his bed, watching him breathe.

Five years old.

Fluent in Mandarin. Fluent in English. Fluent in Tagalog.

So smart. So curious. So polite it broke my heart sometimes.

I'd raised him alone.

I'd taught him to be gentle and kind and brave.

But he didn't know who he really was.

Didn't know what he came from.

I brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead.

"Sebastian Blair," I whispered.

"I'm sorry," I breathed. My voice cracked. "I'm so sorry for everything."

Morning came too fast.

Sebastian was bouncing on the mattress, shrieking about airplanes.

I forced myself to smile.

I forced myself to make it fun.

We took a taxi to the airport.

He asked the driver endless questions in Mandarin, making the man laugh.

At check-in, he introduced himself in English.

At immigration, he shyly told the officer "Salamat po" in Tagalog, making the woman grin.

He was so ready for this.