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We were in our small kitchen back at the condo.

Sam and I.

We were alone, and the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee filled our small condo unit. It was dark outside and from the open windows that opened to our small balcony, I could hear the distant sounds of cars passing through Katipunan Avenue.

Sam placed his glass of red wine on the table and closed the small distance between us. He was wearing his favorite Ninoy Aquino shirt, the same one he was wearing when I first saw him at the small advertising agency in Makati. His hair was tied in a loose ponytail, his trademark look, and he was wearing the same shy grin that I knew so well.

I wanted to say something witty but when I opened my mouth, no sound came out. Sam was inching closer now, so I tried to raise my arm in a friendly protest. Oddly enough, I couldn't move. It felt as if I was frozen in place.

And then Sam embraced me, just the way I remember it. He still smelled of the same burnt wood, earth, and sweat, exactly as I remember. I felt his lips press against my forehead and I felt the same familiar sensation when he kissed me that time in Dagupan.

Someone was knocking on the door. I wished the sound would simply go away because I didn't want to move an inch. I felt at home in Sam's embrace.

The knocking grew louder, as though the person on the other side of the door was eager to be let in. I shrugged myself loose from Sam's tight grasp and was amazed that I could move again. I ran the short distance to the door.

And then I woke up.

It was the same dream. A few months after Sam left, I had been dreaming of the same thing and I always woke up before I could get to the door.

Recurring dreams.

That day, I woke up to a familiar room--my mom's private room in the hospital. It wasn't Sam whom I saw running toward me earlier but my older brother James, who just arrived from California together with my older sister Cass.

"How are you feeling, Ron?" my brother, the surgeon, asked while checking my temperature.

"How's Mom?" I asked.

"She's still in the recovery room," my sister Cass, the architect, answered as she handed me a glass of water. "Her stats are good, don't worry. What happened to you? I heard you made a scene at the second floor."

"Nothing out of the ordinary, I guess," I joked and leapt out of bed. I still felt woozy. "I'm really glad you're here now."

And then I broke down again. I was huffing and puffing as I tried to string words into coherent sentences that my older siblings could understand—my guilt, my fear, my anger (toward that son of a bitch Archer), and my promise to fix my life and make up for the two years I'd wasted in rebellious independence.

I was crying and wheezing at the same time; James and Cass thought I was hyperventilating. They said it took me half an hour to finish my emotional outburst, and only after James threatened to stab me with a tranquilizer if I didn't stop, much to the amazement of my dad and aunt.

My mom went home a few days later and my siblings stayed for a couple of months before flying back to the States. When I was sure that my mom was better, we talked and I found out that it was her idea not to tell me immediately that she was confined. All because I was on a date that day, I thought. Once again, I was overwhelmed by too many emotions. I broke down for the nth time.

I called it quits with Archer the day my siblings went back to the States, via e-mail because I decided that Archer didn't deserve my respect—or a decent break up, for that matter. That year, I found that I was able to forgive Archer for the cheating part, but what I could never get past was how he didn't seem to care that my Mom went through an operation. It was something I couldn't turn a blind eye to. It was simply non-negotiable.

The prodigal daughter patched things up with her family, because as things turned out, she needed their support for another storm.

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