Actions That We Can't Control | F.S #01

01

"Just the family," Dad replied. "Small dinner. Intimate."

Small. Right.

My parents' definition of small was very different from everyone else's. I could already imagine the table: pristine white linens, the good china, crystal glasses that only came out twice a year.

Formal. Scripted. Fake.

I sighed. "What do I wear?"

Mom, who was passing by the hallway, called out without missing a beat, "Not black, please."

I smirked.

Saturday came faster than expected. I spent most of the morning holed up in my room, editing music files on my laptop and ignoring the frantic pacing outside my door. Our house looked like it was preparing for war—flowers delivered, extra chairs pulled out, the whole living room rearranged to look less like a place we actually lived in and more like a hotel lobby.

Mom hovered in the kitchen, barking orders at the help. I tried staying out of the way. Tried.

"Hiroshi, anak, can you please set the wine glasses sa side table?" she called.

I obeyed, not wanting another lecture about "family participation." She hovered behind me while I worked, adjusting everything I touched.

"Ayan. Ganyan. Dahan-dahan, baka magasgas."

"Yes, Ma," I said, not unkindly.

Hours have passed and it's finally dinner time. I wore a pressed polo shirt that felt way too stiff, as if it had been ironed by a demon who hated comfort. My mom, made me tuck it in even though I complained. Naomi Hikari, my sister, just smirked from the hallway mirror, fixing her eyeliner like she wasn't eavesdropping.

"You look nice," she said without looking up.

"I look like a church greeter," I muttered, checking my reflection one last time.

"You are a church greeter." she said, raising her eyebrows.

I scoffed, "Exactly."

She laughed.

I didn't.

When the Buenavistas arrived, there were warm greetings and handshakes and that overly polite laughter that only adults seem to master. Tita Khisa was sweet, dressed in pastel yellow, holding a homemade cassava cake like a peace offering. Her husband, Tito Sherlock looked like he worked in finance—pressed barong, gold watch, smile na may halong pagod. The kind of smile you use when you're used to pretending things are fine.

Behind them is their daughter, Eliana Dorothy, Theodore's younger sister. She's looking around, as if mentally judging the interior design. I peak at their back but there were no sign of him, Theodore wasn't with them.

"Oh, si Theo?" my mom asked, peeking behind them.

"Ah, he had errands daw," Mrs. Buenavista said, waving it off casually. "He's always busy these days, kahit weekend."

My dad nodded understandingly. "Teenagers."

Everyone laughed.

Except me.

I just stood there, beside my sister. But something inside me felt off.

Dinner was as stiff as expected.

The table was too long for six people, and conversation bounced awkwardly between adults talking about church politics, upcoming fundraisers, and a planned pilgrimage to Rome. I mostly kept quiet, stabbing at the roast beef on my plate and nodding when spoken to.