Last January, my mom and dad celebrated their 25th anniversary in Iloilo.
Their parents were friends, and they met each other when they were kids. As they grew up, my dad left to go Manila for high school and they forgot about each other.
My mother was a star dancer, but had to stop in high school because of a car accident that nearly killed her. They told her she’d never dance again. She proved them wrong by dancing in college every day, and getting a scholarship because of it.
My dad was a free spirit that was your typical smart delinquent who cut class a lot but still managed to top his classes. They met again in college when they ran for student council together, and won.
Since my father was two years older than my mother, he went to work in the city right after college. They wrote hand-written, mailed letters to each other every day for two years. Sometimes, when they didn’t know what to say anymore, they’d fill up entire pages with “I love you” scribbled over and over again. Until now, we have them in a box, and read them to make dad embarrassed.
Right after my mom graduated, he asked her to marry him. Because his two years in the city was spent making money for their wedding. After 25 years, six children and three houses later, they celebrated their wedding anniversary, and they’re still very much in love.
My parents, they make me want to believe in love. They make me want to believe that even during these messed up times, it still exists. Their story is probably one for the books.
