At ten a.m. on Tuesday mornings, Lola stands at our front door holding a big white plate covered in foil. 

This ritual started just over a year ago when we found out about Mama’s sickness. Ever since then, Lola never missed a Tuesday without bringing a plate of pancit. 

The savory smell of noodles reaches me long before I even open the door. And when I do, Lola mumbles a quick hello while kicking off her shoes. I reach for her hand in an attempt to touch it against my forehead the way YouTube taught me to respect my Filipino elders, but she’s already walking away from me, her short white hair swaying from side to side as she rushes to get to the storage room-turned-Mama’s room. We recently had to improvise when Mama couldn’t go up and down the stairs anymore. I’ve been meaning to go through the stacks of boxes and broken computers surrounding her make-shift bed, but it’s been at least a month and Mama hasn’t mentioned that they bothered her. A part of me suspects that she sort of likes the company when I’m not here, even that of inanimate objects. 

“Guess what I brought.” Lola raises the plate as she enters Mama’s sanctuary. 

As if we don’t know what’s in it already. As if we haven’t been eating noodles every Tuesday for the past year.

There are fresh yellow roses on the nightstand that I bought from the farmer’s market the day before. It’s nice to have one colorful thing in a room full of brown and white and more brown. Even Lola’s winter coat is the same shade as her tan skin. 

Mama smiles slightly, her dry lips threatening to crack. “My favorite.” 

As if she has been able to keep anything down lately. As if the smell alone, one that used to remind her of home, doesn’t make her feel nauseous. 

Mama tries to sit up, a wince spreading across her face that she hides quickly behind a smile, but I already saw it. She waves me off when I try to help her, grinning at me with teeth this time. It’s hard to believe this is the same woman that chased me down apartment hallways as a kid to give me a bath when I refused. The same woman who ran a 5k every fall for her favorite charity event. The same woman who hiked Mt. Whitney with me just three years ago. 

It’s cruel what this sickness has taken away from us. 

I take the plate from Lola and store it in the fridge. It’s the least I can do for Mama, my gift—take away anything that could cause her discomfort even if it means taking away Lola’s gift to her.

I sit at the kitchen table, adjacent to Mama’s room and scroll through my phone. There are a lot of things I could do instead. I could rip open the growing pile of envelopes on the table and organize which bills we have to pay now versus ones we can still put off. I could look into getting back into the nursing program and maybe sign up for a course or two in the fall. I could create an Excel spreadsheet and list all of Mama’s accounts and gather the usernames and passwords while I still can.

But none of that seems as enticing as listening to two women gossip and banter and cackle all while switching from Tagalog to English and back again so effortlessly. It’s hard not to eavesdrop and watch a mother and daughter be a mother and daughter when I didn’t grow up seeing them together. This is a side of Mama I’ve never seen—giddy and childish, almost approval-seeking. And being in the presence of this mythical-like creature we avoided talking about all our lives called Lola is bizarrely exciting. 

Mahimbing. I type it on my notes app with the rest of my growing list of Tagalog words I’ve been learning every week when my grandmother comes over. Mama, in what I think was an attempt to fully shed her past, didn’t bother to teach me her native language. To sleep soundly. Mama must have rested well last night.

When Mama nods off, Lola plants a long kiss on her forehead.

“Would you like to stay for lunch?” I ask when she emerges from the room.

The more I see them together, the more I notice the way they resemble each other. Soft eyes, pursed full lips, a commanding demeanor. The very same features I inherited. I must have also gotten the dimple on my right cheek from her. 

Lola shakes her head, holding a hand up, which is the answer I expected. We haven’t had a chance to warm up to each other. But then again, she isn’t exactly the warmest grandmother. Mama always told me how strict Lola was when she was growing up—making Mama stay up all night to study even when she had tears in her eyes, not letting her hang out with friends after school, hiding her from boys when her body started to develop. It’s no wonder that Lola kicked her out of the house when she got pregnant by an American boy when she was eighteen, not before first dousing her with holy water blessed by the local Catholic priest.

One would think that with my father leaving before I was even born that Lola would have shown more mercy. But Mama had to figure it all out by herself.

I never said so out loud, but I didn’t like the idea of Lola coming around more when she had let Mama down most of her life. Exchanging pleasantries once or twice a year before Mama’s sickness was more than enough for me. But Lola bringing food every week felt like her own selfish way to salvage her soul to make sure God still lets her enter the white pearly gates when it’s her time to go.

“We need to forgive. It’s the only way to move forward,” Mama said that first Tuesday. She devoured a plate of pancit while pacing back and forth in the kitchen. She was still feeding herself those days. She was still walking. And she was still able to read my face so perfectly.

These days, I’m the only one eating the pancit. Mama’s diet consists of soup and yogurt and anything mushy. And I can’t remember the last time she walked by herself. Even turning herself over on the bed has been challenging lately.

And these days, though I won’t ever admit it to anyone, I’ve started to look forward to Tuesdays, if only to hear another person’s voice and see their face. If only to feel someone’s aliveness, as fucked up as that sounds.

Patawarin, I hear Lola say. I have to google that one. To ask for forgiveness. I see Mama with her eyes closed, tears staining her cheeks as she nods when Lola whispers it over and over again.

I find my own cheeks wet. I wonder if that means I’ve forgiven too. Mama for being sick. And Lola for being away for so long.

When Mama falls asleep, Lola lingers in the kitchen where I’m sitting at the dining room table paying bills. She looks around the small room for what seems like the first time. I’m afraid she’s going to scold me for leaving the place such a mess, but she only smiles before rolling up her sleeves. She hand washes the dirty dishes piled in the sink and places them in the dishwasher to dry. Mama told me that this was what she used to do too when she was younger, but that since it was just me and her, we could do whatever we wanted—dirty up all the dishes because a machine could just clean it for us.

When she’s done wiping the counters, she looks at my hand, currently grasping a pen mid-air, one that was pretending to write something important and not watching her.

“You’re left-handed?”

I nod.

Lola raises her left hand, blue ink smudged on the side of it. “Me too.”

When she leaves, I let myself fantasize about a childhood with a Mama and a Lola. I think about sleepovers on weekends with chocolate chip cookies or some kind of Filipino dessert always baking in the oven. I think about that red bike I really wanted when I was seven that Mama couldn’t afford but that Lola would have secretly bought for my birthday. I think about a happier and softer Mama, one that didn’t feel like it was just me and her against the world. One that didn’t need to work two jobs while going to school and raising me.

Mahal kita, Lola says one day. I know that one. Mama says you should never hang up the phone or part ways with loved ones without telling them that you love them because you just never know if they’re the last words spoken or heard.

Mama has her eyes closed when Lola says this to her. She’s been asleep the whole day.

Lola doesn’t clean this time, but she does sit across from me at the kitchen table. The bus back to Tita Joy’s house will be leaving in ten minutes, but she doesn’t seem to care. 

“There’s another one coming in an hour,” Lola says.

“I can also just drive you. It’s not that far.”

“No, no. You should be with your mother.” An awkward silence passes, but the woman only stirs in her seat with no indication of leaving. “Do you like the pancit?” she asks.

It’s become my favorite thing in the world.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how much your mother has told you about Filipino customs, but it’s been said that pancit symbolizes long life and good health. Eat more of it, live longer.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well now you know. And don’t let anyone tell you that it came from the Chinese. They think everything came from China.”

I want to tell her that it probably did, but she’s looking at Mama now. She’s already somewhere else.

“I should have fed her more of it,” Lola mutters under her breath. I think I’m imagining it. But then she turns to me, her eyes wet. “I regret not feeding her more of it.”

She stands up and lingers by Mama’s door, touching her fingers against her forehead and across her chest. I can’t remember if she’s ever done this before, said a prayer.

Mahal Kita, anak, she says again.

Mama doesn’t answer back.

The following Tuesday, I open the door to the usual knock. Except nothing about the day is usual.

Mama didn’t wake up in the morning. Mama isn’t in the room anymore.

Lola wraps me in a tight embrace, the plate of pancit still in her hand, its sharp edges quivering against my back.

I don’t leave the house for weeks after. I don’t pick up my phone. I don’t answer the frantic knocks. At least not until one Tuesday at exactly ten in the morning.

When I peek out of the crack, I see that Lola doesn’t have a plate in her hand, but she holds up a bag of groceries for me to see.

She sighs in relief when I open the door more widely and motion for her to come in.

In the kitchen, there isn’t a lot of talk about Mama. In fact, nothing at all. Along with the scent of sautéed onions and garlic, there’s an unspoken agreement that hangs in the air to let each other grieve privately while honoring the woman we loved. 

But there’s, “Julienne the carrots and roughly chop the cabbage.” 

There’s, “Like this?”

There’s, “Soak the noodles in water first.” 

There’s, “Much softer when you soak it first—you’re right.” 

There’s, “Brown the chicken, but not too crisp.” 

There’s, “That smells delicious.”

There’s a proud smile, “And now you have pancit. Easy, right?”