When his son sees him, he breaks out into a run.
.” Miong breathes, falling to his knees with arms open wide. His baby boy crashes into him, knocks them both to the ground. “Oh,
There’s a wet patch now, on the shoulder of his shirt, but Miong elects to ignore it and instead buries his nose in his son’s thick hair.
“You’re so big, na…” he says, breathing in the scent of lemons and soil and sweet santan flowers that always seem to stick to his little boy’s skin. “How old are you?”
Goyong pulls away, grinning. “I’m ten, Itay!”
?” Miong laughs, trying to cover up the way his sternum implodes and his heart seizes, just a bit. “You’re ten years old and your Papa
Goyong laughs, rough and sweet, and embraces him again, grip so tight Miong finds it difficult to breathe.
“I’ve missed you so much, Itay…” Goyong whispers. “I’ve missed you so
Miong doesn’t reply, doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge the way his bones crack under the weight of his son’s words or the way his heart crawls into the back of his throat.
He doesn’t do anything.
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