Quila, her brothers and their mother were in their parents’ room, where her father spent most of his time since he fell ill.
“Hey. Is it my birthday already? Where’s my cake?” their father joked, speaking haltingly.
They chortled briefly and turned serious right afterward.
“Pa, we have something to tell you,” Quila began.
Cognac twisted the party popper open, and the assortment of confetti rained down their father’s bed. Laughter ensued.
“’Nong! Why did you pop it before I told him the news?” Quila complained, eyes widening.
“Just think of it as a drum roll,” Cognac returned, grinning.
She rolled her eyes. “Can I say it now then?”
“What is it, anak?” her father asked. He appeared excited to hear Quila’s news. They could all see it in his shining eyes.
Quila held her father’s hand
