The scent of garlic fried rice hit her first — rich and familiar, like comfort wrapped in oil and steam.
Then came the chatter. Clattering dishes. Laughter.
Eleanor sat frozen on the edge of her bed, the pale pink sheets around her legs bunched up in confused fists. The mirror still showed the impossible reflection: her sixteen-year-old face, cheeks rounder, eyes wide and youthful, with not even a trace of the sleepless nights she carried at twenty.
She blinked hard, as if she could will the hospital room back into place.
But it didn't come.
Instead, a shriek rang up from the kitchen.
"Hoy, Ellie! Kung hindi ka pa bababa ngayon, lalantakan ko 'tong itlog mo!" It was Bella.
Her voice was higher pitched, still carrying the smugness of a younger sister trying to be older than her years.
"Ate, dali! Naiwan mo na naman 'yung charger mo sa CR, oh!" Alex added, followed by the loud slam of a cabinet door.
The tears came again before Eleanor could stop them.
She clutched her chest, shoulders trembling, her breaths shallow and uneven.
They were alive. All of them.
This is real. This is now.
A loud knock came at her door.
"Anak? Gising ka na ba?"
The voice stopped her heart cold.
Mama.
Warm. Strong. Bright.
"Ellie, anak?"
The doorknob turned, and in came a woman wearing a faded Mickey Mouse t-shirt and shorts, holding a laundry basket on one hip.
She looked so real.
Yana's hair was pulled into a messy bun, a smudge of lipstick slightly off-center, her brow furrowed in mock annoyance.
"Oh, there you are," she huffed, setting down the basket. "Puyat ka na naman kagabi, 'no? Lagi kang ganyan pag malapit na ang period mo."
Eleanor stared at her like she was looking at a ghost.
"Mama…" she breathed, barely audible.
Yana tilted her head. "Hmm?"
Eleanor stood slowly, her knees wobbling.
Then, before she could think, she rushed forward and threw her arms around her mother, burying her face into her shoulder.
Yana froze for a second, caught off guard.
"Uy? Ano 'to? Na-possess ka ba? Ikaw 'to ha?"
But her arms came up, holding Eleanor tightly, rubbing slow circles into her back.
"Ano na naman ba 'yan? Did you have a bad dream?" she said gently.
Eleanor just nodded into her shoulder, breath hitching, overwhelmed by the weight of everything she had lost—and just regained.
Downstairs, the house was alive.
Plates clinked. Oil sizzled. A morning radio announcer cheerfully barked out today's lucky horoscope numbers.
Papa Gabe was already seated at the table in his white sando, reading the newspaper.
He glanced up as Eleanor slowly came down the stairs, her eyes still red but her face trying to arrange itself into normalcy.
"Uy, anak. Gising ka na rin."
His voice was familiar—firm but gentle.
Eleanor stared at him like she was seeing a memory come to life.
He looked younger than she remembered from her last visit to the prison—his hair black and full, no graying edges, his smile effortless.
She opened her mouth to respond but couldn't find the words.
So she just nodded and sat down at the table.
Bella was already eating rice with hotdog and scrambled egg, humming some pop song off-key.
Alex was drawing on the table with banana ketchup.
"Lex, tigil-tigilan mo 'yan!" Yana scolded from the kitchen. "Puro ka kalat!"
Alex stuck out his tongue but obediently wiped the mess with tissue.
Eleanor looked around, feeling like she was inside a dream.
It was all here—the peeling linoleum floor, the electric fan squeaking in the corner, the tiny TV playing cartoons in the background.
It was loud. Messy. Warm.
It was home.
"I had the weirdest dream," she said softly, finally finding her voice.
They all looked up.
"Grabe, Ma…" she went on, eyes meeting her mother's. "You were… really sick. And we were in the hospital. And Papa wasn't there. Everything felt wrong."
Yana blinked, her playful smile faltering just a little.
Then she reached over and gently cupped Eleanor's cheek.
"Dream lang 'yan, anak. I'm right here."
Her hand was warm.
Eleanor nodded slowly, trying not to cry again.
After breakfast, the chaos of the day resumed.
Papa Gabe started fixing the leaking faucet. Bella changed three times before school. Alex forgot his notebook and blamed the dog they didn't even own.
Yana scolded, teased, pinched cheeks, and handed out kisses like it was her full-time job.
It was noisy and chaotic, and Eleanor soaked up every moment of it like a sponge.
She watched Mama hold Bella's face in her hands and whisper, "Ingat sa school ha. Huwag mo kalimutan 'yung baon mo."
She watched Papa slap Alex gently on the back and say, "Huwag mong awayin 'yung classmates mo ha. 'Wag matigas ulo."
They were a family. Whole.
And for now… happy.
That Afternoon
In school, Eleanor walked the familiar halls of her old high school like a ghost.
Posters from old school events were still hanging.
Her friends waved, but she couldn't remember what to say.
Her heart wasn't ready to pretend everything was the same—because for her, nothing was.
She sat in her classroom, watching younger versions of people she had already said goodbye to.
And yet, here they were—laughing, doodling, complaining about tests.
She overheard her teacher say, "Quiz next week!" and everyone groaned.
And Eleanor thought: I get to live this again. All of it.
She gripped the edge of her desk, her mind swimming.
This was more than just a dream.
This was a gift.
That Night
Eleanor sat beside her mother in the small living room, watching TV while Yana scrolled through her phone.
"You've been quiet today, anak," Yana said, not looking up.
Eleanor hesitated. "Mama…"
Yana glanced at her. "Hmm?"
She wanted to say so much. To tell her how much she loved her. How sorry she was. How she would do better this time.
But instead, she reached over and leaned her head on her mother's shoulder.
Yana paused, surprised. Then she smiled.
"Anong drama 'to?" she teased. "May iniiyakan ka ba?"
"No," Eleanor said softly. "I just… missed you."
Yana snorted. "Ako rin naman. Namiss kita kahit nandito ka lang sa bahay."
Eleanor laughed quietly through her tears.
She didn't know how long she had here, how far the second chance would go.
But she knew one thing for sure:
She wasn't going to waste it.