You realize you've grown up when you no longer want to miss the food at the dinner table—the steaming hot soup, the meals your mom prepares while juggling a dozen other tasks, the familiar aroma of your father’s favorite recipes, the noisy chatter of siblings in the background. After a long, exhausting day, all you want is to go home, to see familiar faces—the same people who may have hurt you deeply but are also the ones who console your heart, the reasons you learned to dream and persevere, and the ones you truly want to see happy in life.
Growing up is tough. It’s slowly understanding why older people sleep and wake up early, why they start chores at dawn, and why they drink hot tea or black coffee without sugar. You begin to see why they dislike loud noise from teenagers and get frustrated over little things. You start preferring quiet nights at home, watching TV together, having simple conversations, and even bickering over trivial matters—like who’s going to wash the dishes or why someone didn’t flush the toilet. Sometimes, the small annoyances make you want to leave, but after stepping outside for some fresh air, you find yourself longing to hear their loud snores again.
Society has set endless standards about freedom and independence, making it easy to forget that we are meant to look after one another, to care, to forgive, and to offer comfort—not just because we live under the same roof, but because we are family.
I once dreamed of living independently, thinking that reaching a certain age meant proving to society, “I can live on my own.” I imagined saying, “I can do things without my mom,” or even, “I’ll leave home when the pain becomes too much.”
But love isn’t about running away when things get difficult. Love is patient—it is choosing to love others as they are, despite their flaws, their past, and their shortcomings. It’s seeing the messiness, the imperfections, and choosing to stay anyway. It’s knowing your own faults and yet still being welcomed at the dinner table.
Love is coming home with pasalubong in your hands, knowing it will make them smile. It’s rushing out of your bedroom in the morning for work, leaving a mess behind—only to return to neatly made sheets. It’s listening to your father’s frustrations late at night and still waking up early to prepare for his work. It’s arguing with your siblings but making sure they still have enough water in the basin. It’s when your nephew gives you a small Valentine’s gift—a simple yet sincere expression of love.
I almost forgot the little things that make a house a home—the warmth, the chaos, the quiet, the laughter. The people inside may not be perfect, but they are present.
And if the time comes when I can no longer sit at our dinner table or wash the dishes at our sink—when it's my turn to build my own home—I know I will miss it.
