When I was still very young and living in England, I one day felt a tremendous amount of sadness from my mother. We were going back to the Philippines. My mother acted like someone had died. I didn’t understand what was going on. I was so confused. On the plane, my mother started crying. She looked out the window and cried silently. I looked to my father and expected that he’d explain what was going on. I was ignored like how he ignored my mother. I thought we were going on vacation, that we were going back. Fear overwhelmed me when I saw the slums of Manila. This was not a vacation. This was permanent. “Is this Hell?” I remember telling myself. That was how I knew my father was not a husband to my mother. He had forced us to go with his stupid decision, and he knew that a child and a submissive mother would not do anything about it.