The school day left a thin line of chalk across Sheryl's skirt, like the city had signed her before letting her go. She stepped off the jeep at dusk and walked the short block to their gate, rehearsing tomorrow's lesson on sources and bias while parsing how much rice was left in the tin. The sky over Parañaque was a warm bruise; tricycles stitched it together with their noise.
Inside, the fan worked like it was paid by the sigh. Mom sat at the table with a Practical Nursing module open, reading glasses low on her nose, highlighter poised. A cuff and thermometer waited beside a cup of instant coffee, as if the house were a small clinic pretending to be a kitchen.
"You ate?" Mom asked, eyes still skimming sentences.
"Later," Sheryl said, kissing the top of her head. "How's the module?"
"Vitals and documentation," Mom said, tapping the margin where her notes marched in tight letters. "If I pass the last set, I'll apply for the school nurse post at your campus." She looked up, waiting for the face that meant approval, not pity.
"You'll pass," Sheryl said. "And our school is lucky."
Mom's smile was small and private, the kind you tuck in a pocket for later. "Savier, homework!" she called, switching voices like channels.
The boy emerged with a notebook and a pencil he'd chewed down to determination. "Ma'am Ate," he said, mocking-bowing at Sheryl, "math."
"Cruel," Sheryl murmured, but she took the seat across him and drew the problem into smaller shapes. While he worked, she checked the ledger she kept on her phone—salary in, bills out, the chasm between them like a quiet room. Susan messaged a photo of a certificate—Rotary had renewed her scholarship. Sheryl sent back all the emojis she usually saved for students.
The front door swung open on a gust of fast-food air and glitter. Sharon spilled in, still in her Carl's Jr. birthday host uniform, a paper crown folded in her pocket, cheeks dusted with something that shimmered.
"I'm late," she announced, "but I brought fries."
Mom made the grateful sound she reserved for unexpected food. "Put some on a plate."
Sheryl smiled, because gratitude cost less than judgment. "How was work?"
"Kids are loud, parents are louder, but the tips are okay," Sharon said, already scrolling through her phone. "I might do extra shifts this weekend."
"Good," Mom said. "Save for enrollment."
The word enrollment moved through the room carefully, like a cat deciding whether to stay. Sharon nodded without looking up. Sheryl kept her face in neutral, a skill she had refined to muscle memory.
Her phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number. A florist's card flashed in her head before the screen did.
Rafi (Coin Guy):
Hi—Rafi here, from the taxi. I reached Sucat that day.
MOA → Intramuros on the meter: ₱180.
I was last to get off, so I paid the whole fare.
If you still want to split, your share is ₱180. No rush.
Also: congratulations on surviving four-inch heels.
Sheryl's mouth remembered how to grin without permission. She typed, erased, typed again.
Sheryl:
Hi, Coin Guy. Thank you for the math. I'll send my share. What's your GCash?
Three dots, then a pause long enough to remind her that strangers owed each other nothing.
Rafi:
I can cover it. You were late for a wedding; I was headed home. It balanced out.
But if your sense of fairness will not sleep:09267816872 Rafiq A.
Her sense of fairness never slept. She opened GCash, typed ₱180, and stared at the confirm screen like it was a quiz that revealed character. She pressed Send, then screenshot, because receipts were a love language where she came from.
Sheryl:
Sent. For my sense of fairness. Please confirm you got it.
Rafi:
Received. Your fairness is awake and loud. Thank you.
She felt the house in soft focus for a second—the fan's hum, Savier whispering times tables to himself, Mom underlining breathing, bleeding, comfort in her manual, Sharon complaining that glitter had migrated to her scalp. The text thread was a small bright line drawn across a messy room.
Sheryl:
How's your Tagalog?
On a scale of "kaya ko 'to" to "under construction."
Rafi:
Under construction with scaffolding.
Bisaya is easier for me. Sorry in advance.
Sheryl:
English is free here. You'll survive.
What do you do in Manila, anyway? You didn't look like the call center type.
She immediately wondered if that sounded snobbish. The dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared.
Rafi:
I help at a mosque in BF Homes.
Personnel. Community work. It's… quiet.
That made a clean kind of sense. The prayer mat by the truck. The way he asked permission with his hands before touching the veil pin. The coin and the "Bismillah" she'd only half-heard.
Sheryl:
That explains your calm.
BF is near my school. Parañaque is small if you squint.
Rafi:
Where do you teach?
She looked at Savier, who had drawn tiny soldiers beside his numbers.
Sheryl:
Public high school. Social Studies.
Teenagers who don't yet understand the price of chalk—but I teach them anyway.
Rafi:
Then you are the brave one.
I work with adults who shouldn't need explaining.
(But still do.)
Sheryl snorted softly, enough that Sharon glanced up and squinted like laughter owed her context.
"Who's that?" Sharon asked, too quick.
"Student," Sheryl lied easily. "Asking about sources."
Sharon shrugged, bored already. Mom closed her module and stretched her fingers. "Sheryl, can you check my CV later?" she asked. "For the school nurse application."
"After we eat," Sheryl said. "We'll print it at the faculty room tomorrow. I'll ask Sir Manny to notarize the affidav— never mind, wrong pile." She smiled at herself. The worlds bled.
On the stove, she reheated the leftover rice and scrambled eggs with tomatoes. The smell lifted something in the room. She divided the food by habit—Savier first, Mom next, Sharon and the bucket of fries, herself last. The act soothed her more than eating did.
Her phone buzzed again.
Rafi:
If I write Tagalog and it's wrong, will you correct me?
I don't want to sound like a lost tourist forever.
Sheryl:
Deal. But you pay in Bisaya lessons.
My students think "gwapo" is universal, but I refuse to be lazy.
Rafi:
Gwapo is definitely universal.
We can trade: Tagalog for Bisaya.
And English if we both fail.
Sheryl:
English is for peace talks.
Tagalog for drama.
Bisaya for jokes?
Rafi:
And scolding.
My titas would like you to know.
She laughed out loud, and Mom's head lifted like sunlight had touched it. "What's funny?"
"Grammar," Sheryl said, which was not a lie, exactly.
They ate in truce. Sharon talked about a child who'd insisted on blowing candles one by one, as if each wish had to be specific and separate. Mom recited the steps for taking blood pressure like a poem. Savier announced he would be a scientist, or maybe a tricycle driver, or both.
After dishes, Sheryl sat with Mom and pulled up her CV. They fixed dates, added the PLDT years with the dignity they deserved, included training sessions, and drafted a cover letter that made the house feel bigger than its rent.
"Thank you," Mom whispered when they printed it on the old inkjet that coughed and tried its best. "If they hire me at your school, I'll pack you lunch every day."
"You already do," Sheryl said, and meant the kind that wasn't food.
Her phone chimed again. She pretended not to read it while Mom stapled pages carefully.
Rafi:
Question: in Parañaque, which is more correct—
"Magpa-pray ako sa mosque" or "Magdadasal ako sa mosque"?
She considered. It was one of those small things that told you where a person had lived and loved.
Sheryl:
"Magdadasal ako sa mosque" is fine.
But "magpa-pray" is what most people say in practice.
Code-switching is a sport here.
Rafi:
Then I will play and lose gracefully.
Sheryl:
You'll get good. Parañaque trains you fast.
Also—do your mosque duties keep you up late?
Rafi:
Sometimes. Meetings, community tasks.
But tonight I will sleep. Your ₱180 settled my conscience.
Sheryl:
My ₱180 likes to be useful.
Rafi:
Then we have that in common.
She stared at that last line longer than she should have. Useful had been her name for years—useful daughter, useful sister, useful teacher—and the word had worn grooves into her. Coming from a stranger, it didn't pinch. It simply fit.
Sharon's door clicked shut. Savier's breathing steadied into soft whistling. Mom laid out her uniform for tomorrow as if the fabric could be convinced to behave. Sheryl wiped down the table twice, because order was the last prayer before sleep.
Her phone, face down, pulsed once more.
Rafi:
Good night, Sheryl.
Salamat sa… pagtulog? (Is that right?)
— I mean, for letting my Tagalog try.
She shook her head, smiling.
Sheryl:
"Salamat sa pagtuturo"—thanks for teaching.
But we'll accept "pagtulog" if you're sleepy.
Good night, Rafi. Rest.
She put the phone on the shelf above the prayer beads she kept from a school field trip years ago because they smelled like something clean. The fan cut the heat into manageable pieces. Outside, someone's karaoke machine attempted a love song and almost reached it.
In the dark, Sheryl thought of ₱180 and how fairness had a sound when it arrived—like a receipt saved, like a debt settled, like a thread drawn lightly between two points on a map. BF Homes was not far if you knew which jeep to take. The mosque was closer than poetry, farther than gossip. Slow was good, she told the part of herself that wanted to run in heels again. Slow held.
On his side of the city, a man she barely knew would unroll a mat and face what did not change when languages did. Tomorrow, she would stand in front of a classroom full of teenagers who did not yet understand the price of chalk, and she would help them learn anyway. Somewhere in the day, there might be time for a message about verbs. Or a joke that needed translation. Or a new word for useful that didn't taste like sacrifice.
For now, she slept. The house listened to itself breathe. And the number on a florist's card grew less like a coincidence and more like a beginning that refused to hurry.