Mizz Erna

Ack! When did I suddenly switch gears once again, where I, the daughter, began worrying about my parents welfare, instead of the other way around? Not that I didn't care for their well-being before, nor did they stop being concerned with mine. But today, as I hugged my father farewell and watched him go through the metal detectors to get to Gate 18, I had this uncomfortable sensation at the pit of my stomache. Was he gonna be okay? Would he be able to carry all the carry-ons he insisted on bringing with him? Would he be able to get out of the airplane in Manila, get through customs, get his baggage, and meet my Mom at the gate trouble-free? Isn't this the type of thing parents should feel towards their own children?

After college, and maybe even during, I knew exactly what I wanted to do (well, sorta) when I graduated: Live in the Philippines for a couple of months, come back to New York, find a job, and move out of my house. I wanted to be independent of my parents. Live on my own just so I knew I could. I didn't want to be one of those people who lived at home until they got married to finally move out to live with my husband. How old-fashioned! Perish the thought!

Today as I left the airport, I decided that it wasn't such a bad thing that I was still living at home.