“I don’t rightfully know what your father expects from me,” Romy declared with a hint of exasperation to Rosamunda. “I can’t seem to do anything right. I have even sold my share of the family inheritance to my siblings so I can move here and be closer to you. What more does he want from me?”

Rosamunda didn’t answer right away. She became pensive, almost indifferent. Her face even looked like she didn’t quite understand what brought this on – this tirade of sorts. She began to rock the chair, gently at first then a little bit more vigorously.

“You know my father didn’t mean those things he said,” Rosamunda explained. “It was the basi (sugarcane wine) speaking. You should know my father by now.”

Things have been a little rocky between her and Romy lately. They have been married for a couple of years and have been staying at  Rosamunda’s parents’ house – well, until they can get up on their own two feet and set off on their own; that was the understanding.

Romy tried to get along with everybody, with Rosamunda’s parents specially her father. He was a retired colonel in the Armed Forces and was palpably used to being catered to by lowly orderlies and lower-ranking, docile underlings. Set in his ways, he expected the same kind of unwavering loyal treatment from Romy. Additionally, since Romy was the stranger in the equation (he came from another province) who was assimilated into the family by having married Rosamunda, Romy was obliged to show a hint of indebtedness and a sense of unfaltering gratitude toward his saviors (Rosamunda’s parents) who saved him from suffering a fate worse than death.

It was no secret that Rosamunda’s parents felt that Romy was a most unworthy choice of a husband for their daughter. Rosamunda was a degreed professional having finished her studies at UP Diliman. Her family had high hopes for her. They had even contacted a close relative who was already established in America, to see if they all could collaborate and begin the necessary paperwork proceedings for Rosamunda to immigrate.

But love intervened and prevailed. All bets were off as Rosamunda boldly declared to her parents one summer vacation in her senior year that she was carrying the child of the man whom she loved. Her parents responded with alacrity and made all the arrangements for the quickly conceptualized nuptials. As it turned out, Rosamunda was not pregnant after all. She was, by then, very married however.

At a family party recently, Rosamunda’s father made some public pronouncements and statements lamenting the fact that Rosamunda’s future was rendered unrealizable and moot due to a certain excess baggage. It was clear that he was referring to Romy.

“The man’s an inutile,” Rosamunda’s father began. “There is nothing he can do. He can’t even throw or deploy a simple tabucol (throw net), he can’t mend a fence, he can’t even drive a jeep. Which leaves me wondering, where did this man come from? What kind of man and woman sired this man?”

Romy was within earshot. He could hear everything that Rosamunda’s father said. The negative reference to his own parents stung. Still, he bit his tongue. It was hard to do but he did it and held on. He knew better than to confront the man who was giving him and his wife food and shelter. Romy was astute in picking his battles. He knew he was in a war he couldn’t win. The only way out was to leave that place, gather his wife and go face the unknown. In the end, he just grew more resentful of Rosamunda’s father. “What an old bully,” he mumbled as he retreated to the kitchen. “Just you wait and see… things will change.” His self-talk always had a positive theme to it.

That evening following the party, Romy and Rosamunda sat side by side in the double rocking chair in the veranda. The sun had just set. People in the neighboring houses busied themselves preparing their evening repast. How quaint and delicious the different aromas permeating from the makeshift kitchens. How mouth watering the intricately blended spices that filled the young night air. It was quiet and tranquil for the most part. The children who usually played in the street had all gone home.

Rosamunda kept rocking the chair gently. Placing her hand in Romy’s hand and interlacing her fingers in between his, she held on to him tightly. She turned to face him. Their eyes met. Rosamunda studied her husband’s face carefully mapping it. Like a digital scanner she left no space uncharted. She saw a man trying to cry out for some recognition. She saw a man suffering much pain. She broke the silence. “Romy… you know I will go with you no matter where…”

Romy’s face brightened; almost transfigured. For one precious moment he felt the joy of emancipation, liberation. He took a deep breath and exhaled. There was strength and new vigor in his voice. Freed from his damned doormat doldrums, he said quite tenderly, “You mean that Mama?” as he cupped his wife’s beautiful face with both his hands. “Oh my God. . . thank you.”

Dawn found them still entwined in each other’s arms. At cock crow Romy and Rosamunda hurriedly gathered their few belongings and walked toward the freeway to flag the first bus to the city and to a new life.