Page 91 of The Player's Club

It was too hot for soup, but I wasn’t going to tell Jose no. As we bit into our plate of lumpia, I wondered if this had been a wasted trip. Had my uncle just wanted to talk about food? Why had he been so intent on seeing me?

“You know,” Jose said, “you look just like your mom. When I saw you come in, I thought for a second that you were Ana.”

“I never thought we looked alike,” I said, surprised.

“Oh, you do. Doesn’t she look like Ana?” he asked Maria.

Maria shrugged. “I guess so.”

Jose shook his head. “Don’t listen to her. She only met your mom a few times before . . .” He grimaced. “Well, before everything happened.”

The familiar anger returned. “After you disowned my mom, you mean?” I snapped.

Jose looked sad. “I never agreed with Mom doing that, you know.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Yet you only just started caring about me now? What about when I was a kid, or when my mom could’ve used your help?”

Jose gave me a strange look. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

He glanced at Maria, but she didn’t seem inclined to assist him. He said finally, “I reached out to Ana when you were a kid and tried to help her, but she wouldn’t take any help. She thought I was on Mom’s side, I guess. I finally had to give up after a while.”

I stared at him, shocked. “Mom never told me that.”

Jose’s smile was wry. “My sister had a lot of pride so that doesn’t surprise me. She hated accepting help from anyone. And yeah, maybe I did try too hard to keep both sides happy. I should’ve told our mom off, but Ana also wouldn’t bend either. They were too much alike, those two.”

Our server served our bowls of sinigang, the scent of tamarind making my mouth water. When I had my first sip, it almost felt like my mom was right there with me. I told myself that the tears that filled my eyes were from it being so hot, and not from sheer nostalgia.

“Good, isn’t it?” said Jose.

I nodded, because I couldn’t trust myself to speak right then.

We ate in silence, which I was glad for. I needed a moment to process Jose’s revelations. If what he said was true, then he hadn’t abandoned my mom. He’d tried to help us. My mom hadn’t had to struggle like she had.

Why, Mom? You couldn’t have accepted help from your own brother?

“Why do you think my mom told you no?” I asked aloud.

“Why?” Jose shrugged. “Like I said, your mom was very proud. It probably didn’t help that our mom was sure that my sister couldn’t be on her own without our help. My sister never backed down from a challenge.”

Although I wanted to judge my mom, I couldn’t. I probably would’ve done the same thing. Sometimes you needed to prove to yourself, above everything, that you could succeed. And my mom had everything stacked against her: a husband who’d left her; a family who’d judged her. She’d also been an immigrant, and she’d had to learn a new language, raise her daughter, and work multiple jobs.

She’d been a warrior. I just wished we’d had more time together.

“I took care of her when she was dying,” I said, staring at my soup. “It was just us. I didn’t understand why her family didn’t want to help us.”

“I wanted to be there. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I did.” My uncle leaned toward me, his expression intent. “But Ana wouldn’t hear of it.”

To my surprise, Maria finally said, “He really did try. I had to tell him to leave her be.”

“Really?”

Jose looked sheepish. “Ana might’ve told me to buzz off.”

“That’s the polite version,” Maria added, deadpan.

I shook my head, stifling a laugh. “I’m sorry. Mom could be so stubborn, like you said. It was hard to get her to rest, even after her chemotherapy and radiation appointments. I’d catch her making dinner like she used to, and I’d basically have to threaten her to sit down.”