The morning had wasted itself and now the day was settling into luxuriant heat. My aunts had finished their breakfast and were sitting with their coffee. The conversation drifted to the sale of a piece of property in the province, which was fetching a surprisingly high price. In the year since I’d been here, cousin Jim’s youngest daughter had finally gotten engaged, businesses had been started and abandoned. There had been births, pregnancies, affairs, et cetera, that my aunts related with a varying degree of detail. Neither of them pressed me on my separation: they seemed happy to have me back and free of that American man. They had probably given my mother the same treatment when she’d taken the six-year vacation from her American man. That was their attitude, despite the fact that my mother and her siblings were a solid quarter American. My great-grandfather, Benjamin Klein, had been a Texan, a leftover from the Spanish-American War, who had settled in Manila and grown rich working with the railroads. His son, my grandfather, I never met, because he died during the Second World War.

Tita Dom rose from the table. “Ting, call me tomorrow,” she said. “We can have lunch.”

I agreed to the plan, and my younger aunt left to make her weekly pilgrimage to the bank.

“It’s good that you’re here,” said Tita Rosa. “It is just good.”

“Why?” I asked. The statement was intriguingly vague.

“Because your mother cannot care for you, and I feel that she has brought you to me.” This was, of course, nice, but my mother, although an amazing woman—exciting—had most often let me fend for myself. There was the urge to state this truth, but I felt the smallness of it and let it be. Beng was rushing around, clearing the last of the cups. She whispered something in Tita Rosa’s ear and gave me an expectant look.

Tita Rosa said, “Beng would like to know if you would like her to unpack your things.”

“Unpack my things? She doesn’t need to do that.”

“But she wants to. She saw someone doing it on Downton Abbey.”

“Beng watches Downton Abbey?”

“She watches it with me.”

“Talaga?” I looked at Beng, who was probably sixteen years old. She was thin with doleful eyes. Her mouth had trouble closing over her large teeth, but she was still pretty. “Sige. That would be very nice.” I hadn’t brought much with me and it would not take her long. My aunt was looking sleepy, ready for her nap, one of the many she took throughout the day, like a cat.