Manila (CNN Philippines Life) — On my fourth day in Taipei, my mother sent me a text declaring her quest to spice up the living room back home with a new sofa set. Even with a distance of over 13,000 kilometers, she still thinks about home back in the Philippines.

In New York, they just had their entire kitchen redone and added another room on the main floor for my lola who’s having difficulty moving around the house. They were in the kitchen one morning when I noticed the difference. It had better lighting, lots of storage space and it was white. It felt like something that came right out of an issue of Good Housekeeping.

Back at home, mother asked my tita to look for new furniture. She wanted something modern and comfortable. She insisted on using her AmEx so that she could pay for it gradually over the next few months. In the photos she sent to me, it became apparent that she wanted an L-shaped sectional. Maybe because her name is Lydia.

***

The first time I met my father was on Christmas day. I was ten years old. He spent the last ten years in Japan working as a welder in the countryside, far away from the buzz of Tokyo. He witnessed me grow up through home videos recorded through a camera he sent to us. Before my city constructed six malls, it was pretty much dead. My mother would haul our ass to Sta. Ana over the weekends and wait for my dad to call my aunt’s house. Our house had a telephone installed years later, but we would still spend the weekends near the Tenement.

My mother tried to visit Japan, tagging me along and using my dream of experiencing Disneyland as a crutch for our visa. Of course we got denied, even several times, I think. The decade my father had spent away from us took a toll on him. With my other titos planning to leave Japan, he finally surrendered to the authorities and was on his way back home in time for Christmas.

He would leave again two years later, this time riding a cruise ship travelling around the United States. This time, the homesickness got to him. His short time living with us and leaving behind my little brother pushed him to make a comeback even though his and our future was brighter there.

***

When my mother was pregnant with my youngest brother, they saw this opportunity to have a kid with a blue passport. The night they got their visas, I was at home watching the news about an airplane that hit the World Trade Center. My father left the Philippines first, landing as a mechanic in Brooklyn. Months later, my mother would hide her baby bump under layers of coat on the night of her flight to New York.

For a few years, I was living with my little brother, his yaya, my tito and tita. High school is one of the toughest years in someone’s life and in those teen TV dramas, they would always have a wise, cool parent who seemed to know all the answers to all the questions you have in this life — I never had that. Phone calls to New York were expensive.

My mom returned for a few years after her brief overstay in the U.S. Not wanting to be blacklisted from becoming a legit immigrant, she headed back to the Philippines and went back to college, studying nursing after I flat out refused to ride the wave of RN graduates. It was the first time I met my youngest brother, who looks a lot like me.

She graduated again and I got extended in college for two years. She left for New York to work as a nurse, leaving me and my two little brothers back in the Philippines. When my mother’s status cleared up, she gave the go signal for my two brothers to follow them. I was over the age of 21, a grown-ass adult who couldn’t piggyback on mother’s pending green card.

And I’m still here.

With technology’s help, I was more involved in their lives. We’d FaceTime during the holidays, celebrating two New Year countdowns every year. They’d watch us celebrate during our countdown and we’d watch theirs over Skype a few hours later.

I tried applying for a U.S. visa, but with my entire family popping out on their records, my visit will suspiciously end up looking like a permanent stay. I’ve stopped trying and went on to beef up the stamps on my passport, perhaps one day make a stronger case for the embassy to believe that I have a life here in Manila.

A part of me wants to stay here. I have a pretty solid job and someone who cares a lot about me. My friends are here. My career is here. All the bands I like play in venues two hours away from my house, and no matter how much of a hassle it is to reach them, it’s still possible for me to. All those years of getting left behind numbed me from the pain, making me stronger as the years passed.

There will always be fear as long as I’m apart from them. Even though we both live in relatively safe neighborhoods in our respective cities, we can still hear the sirens from the distance at night.

Then there’s that part that pulls you closer to where your family is. I haven’t tried applying again for a U.S. visa. I would probably get denied again anyway. But I do want to be there even just for a short stay. When Duterte won the presidency, some Filipinos wanted to move to a different country, fearing the worst will come to the Philippines. When Trump won, Americans wanted to move to Canada. My mother’s video calls are often peppered with worry. She watches the local news and is horrified by all the deaths and the traffic. I tell her I’m safe.

What I don’t tell her is that I worry about them, too. They own a Filipino store somewhere in Brooklyn and my dad runs a garage. I know that New York is a diverse city, but racism still exists. There will always be fear as long as I’m apart from them. Even though we live in relatively safe neighborhoods in our respective cities, we can still hear the sirens from the distance at night.

With no other way to provide comfort during this really dark year, my parents still strive to make our lives back at home a little better. They show that they care even through the little things: it’s in the brand new sofa that she wants in our living room before Christmas; it’s in the dollar bills that she wants me to hand to her apos and pamangkins on Christmas day; it’s in her media noche suggestions minutes after I write my grocery list.

For me, it’s just another Christmas. I will do my part and find her the best goddamn sofa that would look great in the pictures that I’ll be sharing on her Facebook timeline. I will continue saving what they send me and hopefully use it to buy a ticket for New York once I get that visa.

Perhaps next year will be better for us all.

High school is one of the toughest years in someone’s life and in those teen TV dramas, they would always have a wise, cool parent who seem to know all the questions you have in this life — I never had that and phone calls to New York are expensive.