I grab us each a water and lead Luna outside.
“Wow,” she whispers the second we step onto the patio. “Gogo does not play.”
“She likes to flex her matriarchal muscles. See what you’re made of.”
“She actually mentioned my hips.”
“Which, for the record, tested very well.”
Luna cuts her eyes at me, trying not to smile as she takes a long sip of water.
We cross the yard, opening into the hot midday sunlight, shaded by old oak trees and bordered by Gogo’s vegetable and herb garden.
My father stands at the braai in shorts and a navy t-shirt. The soccer crest on his chest and gold lettering across his shoulders speak to the pride he carries for the Philippine Men’s National Team, playing in Manila tonight. Despite the dominance of basketball in his home country, he stays true to the Azkals.
He’s holding tongs as boerewors sizzle beside chicken skewers marinated in calamansi, garlic, ginger, and lemongrass.A fusion of South African and Filipino flavors. Food diplomacy is Dad’s love language.
He glances up and gives us a wave.
“Dad,” I say when we reach him. “This is Rayne. Rayne, this is my father, Angelo.”
He wipes his hands on a dish towel before offering one to her. “It’s good to finally meet you, Rayne.”
Luna takes his hand. “You too, Angelo.”
“I see you survived Gogo.”
“I think so. Though I suspect the real test will come in my kitchen skills.”
“Just follow her lead. She likes being the boss. That’s why I stay out here,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorily.
Luna laughs. “It smells amazing.”
Dad monitors the skewers, turning them when they have that perfect charred edge. It’s the kind of precision that explains both his engineering brain and my inability to half-ass anything.
“DK tells me you’re running for mayor.”
“I am,” she says, with a slight pause as if she’s expecting him to express his concerns about us.
He doesn’t. Instead, he adds, “He also says you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
“When you run against the best, it keeps you sharp.”
Dad nods, clocking the mutual respect I told him we share. He cuts a piece of chicken from one of the skewers and hands it to her on a napkin. “Try this.”
She pops it into her mouth. “Mmm… that’s incredible. Lemongrass?”
“I think you’re going to do just fine, Rayne.”
She smiles, and everything clicks.
This feels right. Like I knew it would.
“Before I throw you into the deep end with Gogo,” I say, “let me show you upstairs. Dad, I’ll be back to help.”
“Take your time,” he says, content in his happy place.
I grab her bag from the hall, and we climb the stairs past family photos and old graduation portraits. She pauses in front of a picture of me back in 2009 that I’d rather erase from history. My hair is tightly tapered at the sides with a wide, voluminous strip running down the center.
