The tricycle stopped, I stepped down, and followed the woman who opened the gates of a bungalow. Lights were turned on as we walked towards the house. A tall figure stood as if he had been there expecting us. The door behind us slammed, and the woman went out of sight. Poof.
 
            This must be him. Doubt, that blind mole burrowed down my spine, I steadied my feet, surveyed the place.
 
            “You are Melody, my daughter?” He lit a cigarette, puffed on it and emitted circles of smoke blending with the breeze of the dawn.
 
            “Yes, alive and kicking,” I answered.

            I discreetly studied his features as he smoked over again. He was in his early forties, tall and thin, black hair, narrow, almost oriental eyes. I hadn’t expected him to be so tall, lanky compared to the seated gentleman figure in the old photograph I was shown a week ago. He was wearing a jean jacket, a white shirt underneath, corduroys and BeachWalks. I heard him pull a deep sigh, he turned to look at me in the eyes. I stared up to meet his eyes in return.
 
            “Your mother is okay,” he said.

            I hesitated. It hadn’t sounded like a question.

            “I thought you…were dead. That you didn’t survive. You were sickly when you were a baby.”

            “Dead,” I repeated. “You thought I were dead.” 
           
            I felt my blood throb, rushing through my veins. His eyes locked with mine, I struggled to control my emotions. I clenched my fist, how I wanted to knock him dead.
 
            “Well, I had lived...I had survived all these years even without a father. My mother was more than capable of bringing me up all by herself,” my voice struck emphasis on the last word.
 
            “You look so much of your mother. You must be tired. I’ll check if Zita had prepared your bed.” He turned the knob, the door flew open, he gazed at me, he nodded, and the door slammed. I heard his footsteps fade into the distance.
 
            I sat down at the chair in the corner, with clenched jaws I fought my tears from jerking. Sunbeams were slanting in through the window, roosters crowing, and the noise of the horn of the “pandesal” vendor is echoing in the village. It’s already five o’clock in the morning, I was up all night and I am not tired.  
           
            I shouldn’t have come here. Fifteen years I survived believing, too, that my father was dead. It did not really matter until I was given an idea a month ago, that he could still be alive. I battled with the desire to find him, he should have sought for me first if he cared.   But there has always been an empty space that needed to be filled in. I searched for him, found myself traveling with his wife to this place as if I were a toy truck being pulled by a willful child.
 
            Now, I met him. The man who had united with my mother for my existence. The man whose blood runs into my veins. The man responsible to what I have become.
           
            I feel foreign to myself, a tourist in a bizarre land. I was at my father’s home.
           
            Had meeting him changed me, my life?
           
            Listen. I’ve not known him, never heard of him, nor seen him in a photograph for fifteen years.
           
            I could hear voices. The door at the end of the hall opened and his wife appeared, walked to my direction avoiding my eyes. It is time to make my decision, and be the girl I always have been. I stood straight, cleared my throat and went along with her.
 

 

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