It must have been close to 1:00 a.m. when we reached the hotel. As we pulled in beneath the concrete overhang, the sudden relief from the water created a degree of silence. The girl asked, “How much do I owe you?”

“This trip is on me,” I said. “Consider it local hospitality.”

The girl thanked me and got out of the cab. The driver handed her the backpack from the trunk of the taxi and the girl returned to tap on the window. “I didn’t get your name. That seems weird.”

“Christina,” I said. “And you?”

“Martha.”

“Martha, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you have a wonderful time in the Philippines.”

From the hotel, it was just over a mile to my aunt’s house on Twelfth Street in New Manila, a ten-minute drive along familiar streets. When my aunt’s house was first built, right after the war, it had stood alone on a hill, a symbol that the Filipinos had survived, that wealth still existed. Over the years, the gate stayed the same deep green it had always been, resisting change—although across the street, where once had been a series of smaller houses, a towering apartment building now stood, the whole area having been aggressively developed in the last twenty years.

“Busino ho kayo,” I said, indicating that the driver should use his horn. A few short blasts sent a sleepy security guard beneath a deteriorating pink umbrella into the street. He peered suspiciously into the taxi and I presented my face as explanation. The guard unbolted the gates and swung them open, holding the umbrella in the crook of his neck, and we continued in and up the circular drive. By the way the taxi bumped along, I knew that some repaving was in order, and I could see the plants were overgrown. The headlights picked up a thin dog, who lifted a paw questioningly and then ran around the back of the house. I paid the driver, thanking him and tipping him well, although the look he gave the money seemed disappointed. As I stood with my yellow suitcase at the bottom of the tall steps that led to the front door, I wondered if anyone was awake, if it would be difficult to rouse the maid. Just then, the door swung open. Leaning against its frame, silhouetted by the dim light glowing behind her, was my tita Rosa, an old woman made stout by her age. My aunt looked out suspiciously at first, then swooned back dramatically, her hand on her breast.

“Ay, Ting,” she said. “Thank God it’s you.”

I laughed. “Tita, why ‘thank God’?” I picked up my suitcase and started up the steep set of steps that led to the front door.

“For a second I thought you were your mother.”