At the San Rafael market, there is always the smell of bitter coffee and squeezing sugar. It was early in the morning—Wednesday, ten o’clock—when Isadora “Lola Iska” Santos, seventy-seven, passed by with a knee-length skirt and a handkerchief around her neck that she had inherited from her mother, Aling Biring. His gaze was glued to the tin with the picture of peaches—fruits that rarely remained in their shop, and if there were any, on the highest shelf the young shopkeeper who was afraid of the elders kept them.

Grandma Iska stretched out her arm. “Oh, oh. “That dream is a big dream.”

From behind, a clear, joking voice said, “I’m here.” A young man in a white shirt and blue pants raised his hand, fragrant, like fresh breath. His name was Rafael Cruz, twenty-nine years old at the time, a literature teacher at a college in the town next door to San Rafael.

“Thank you, Grandma,” Grandma Iska said, and when the tips of their fingers brushed against each other, she felt a flash of electricity—like a flash on the last roll of the movie. “Are you going to pay for it? It might even fall in the middle of my breath.”

“Oh,” replied Raphael, “if I fall, I shall fall; I don’t know how to miss important things.”

And there, between the bare sugar and the sacked rice, there was a beginning that the world had barely heard: the silent ticking of a clock that Grandma Iska hadn’t noticed for a long time—the clock in her chest that knew how to cling to joy.

Over the next few weeks, they met again and again—once in a row of bread, once in a vegetable garden, sometimes in a row of candles and matches. And every 10 o’clock on Wednesday, the sun seemed to be sleepy with Grandma Iska’s smile, and the bread seemed to chill when Rafael smiled.

“Are you tired?” asked Raphael once, handing out a bag of eggs and flour.

“Tired? “No,” replied Grandma Iska, “but I’ve forgotten something—how to laugh for no necessary reason.”

“Let’s try to remember,” he replied, “there’s a free practice every ten o’clock.”

And they both laughed, as if the banana leaves on the side of the road were littered.

---

Second Spoon: The Blue House

Grandma Iska was more than just a grandmother. In their blue-painted house—a house that looked like a box of candy and flowers—she was the light, the cook, the nurse, the storyteller, and the banksy—yes, banksy, because all the “borrow first, Ma’am,” was passing by her.

She has five children: Marites, Pia, Romy, Paulo, and the youngest, Kiko. Everyone has their own storms—debts, jobs, dreams that have been torn apart by time. On Saturdays, the house was like a waiting shed: a crying grandchild, a waiting child, a piranha of a neighbor’s story.

“Mom, can you take care of the kids again?” I have to work overtime again.”

“Oh my gosh, Yoongi and Yoongi are going to be together. Bring on the meat…”

“Mom, Kenny has a fever. You might want to take a look.”

And Grandma Iska, she didn’t know how to stop, because she had learned martyred love—’that kind of love that you can lock yourself in the kitchen, just to feed everybody.

Until Raphael arrived—not like a storm, but like a breeze that accidentally came into the house. He brought a recipe—not for adobo or kare-kare—but for breathing.

“Grandma,” he once said, “can I make you a cup of coffee?” If you don’t like it, that’s fine. But if you want to, you might want to try the coffee that isn’t rushed, so let’s sit down for a long time and talk about the silence.”

Grandma smiled. “I haven’t sat down to talk about silence in a long time. That might be a good fit for me.”

“Silence is loved, too,” said Rafael. “He’s not jealous, but he’s sad when he’s forgotten.”

---

Third Spoon: The Call of the Family

When Grandma Iska announced to the children that she had a younger friend and was inviting her over for coffee every Wednesday, it was ten o’clock—it was as if everyone had run out of wifi at the same time.

“Mom!” Marites, the eldest, always had a checklist and a sigh. “It’s not a joke. That might just be fooling you.”

“Why do you want to kill me?” asked Grandma.

“Oh, my dear!” replied Romney. “What does it have to do with you?”

“Peace,” Grandma replied softly.

Pia nodded. “It seems to be peaceful. Mom, please don’t be so rude. Some guys are really like that—love to—”

“What’s the matter, Shark? “What?” asked Grandma, raising her eyebrows. “Any stories that you’ve never experienced?”

Paul was silent as if he was always on the sidelines, as if he wasn’t used to facing each other. Kakashi, the youngest, was the only one who laughed, shook his head, and shook his head. “If my mom is happy, I’m happy. But he wasn’t always on the same page.”

“Kiko!” The four shouted.

It’s not easy to take the depth of happiness seriously in a world accustomed to the need for an explanation. So when Lola Iska said she would no longer accept a babysitter assignment on Wednesdays and Fridays, the flood erupted.

“Mom, how do you feel about me?” asked Marilyn. “It’s Monday through Saturday—Wednesday is the most sensible of my time!”

“Mom, I have a thesis defense on Friday. “I can’t wait to see Kenny!” he exclaimed.

“Mom, my project at the plant, the final test is on Friday,” Romy pointed out. “Don’t leave us.”

And Grandma heard that word, causing her heart to smoke in the kitchen: “Let it go.”

“If I’ll be honest with you,” he said gently, “what I’ve left behind, a long time ago, is my own. And if I ever have to give up anything now, it might be my time—it’s my time, isn’t it?”

“SELFISH!” The words unintentionally burst into Marites‘ lips. The whole table was silent.

Grandma didn’t answer right away. He picked up the coil of words, took them to the sink, washed them carefully. “If being happy again is what you call selfishness,” the son said at the same time, “maybe it’s time for me to teach you what the word self means differently.”

---

Fourth Spoon: The Coffee and the Poem

At a small coffee shop by the river, he and Rafael entered the world with a wave of language and sugar. There’s a guitar in the corner, there’s an old poster of Rio Alma on the wall. They sat down at a table with a glass of flowers—coconut milk and a branch of a yellow rose.

“I brought it with me,” Raphael said, pulling out an old book—an anthology of poetry. “I want to read something to you.”

“Are you going to read me?” asked Grandma, laughing to herself. “It was the same way when my husband was young. But it’s a different story—it’s all retail prices and debt lists.”

Raphael nodded, weakly, almost in a whisper:

“In the accompaniment of the old pan, there was a smoking;
In the salt of sweat, there is the sweetness of a new sun.
Who said that love is an age?
Love is a fire on a piece of rice—
it seems like a simple supper, but it satisfies the soul.”

Grandma laughed, and then burst into tears. “You don’t make me cry in the middle of the white sheet, do you?”

“I’m sorry,” Raphael replied. “I just want to remind you that you have a right to read and be read—not just to your children, not just to the world, but to yourself.”

“Don’t be too smart,” Grandma replied. “I love you.”

“It may have been a long time,” replied Rafael, without hesitation, sincerely.

---

Fifth Spoon: The Secret Recipe

In the blue house, Grandma Iska had a saucepan that was always hidden in the upper part of the cabinet—as tall as a dream and as small as the patience to climb. Here she cooks a flan that doesn’t get old-fashioned recipe: milk, eggs, sugar, and another ingredient she doesn’t want to write anywhere else.

“What’s your secret?” asked Raphael, leaning over to the table, waiting.

“If I say,” replied Grandma, “it’s no longer a secret.”

“Babantayan ko,” sabad ni Rafael.

“It’s not a recipe, honey,” he said, smiling. “But it’s time.”

“Why?”

“When you watch for the right moment—not too much, not too little—that’s when the sweetness comes out.”

Raphael shrugged, sat down on the bench, and seemed to be used to this answer from Grandma: not a bath, but always with a hint.

The following Friday, Rafael brought Grandma a small watch—an old pocket, with a lid engraved: “At moments worth watching.” That was a reminder of the secret that is never purely a substance—always time.

Then the weird thing happened: every Wednesday, at ten o’clock, the clock in the blue house seemed to stop. Not because the watch is broken, but because there is a silence that is forced to be heard: Grandma’s screaming that has not been heard for a long time, Rafael’s reading of a poem, their inhalation of flan that has just come out of the heat.

---

Sixth Spoon: The Storm Word

The rumors did not stop on the ship. At Which Mercy store, each customer gets a free “headline.”

“Have you ever seen anything like that? There is a sign that there is a bride-to-be.”

“Oh my god, is it possible that Grandma Iska has an inheritance?”

“If I were your son, I would kill you.”

It came to the children. arrived at the church. He even went so far as to say that he was a member of the Marine Corps.

One night, the four children arrived at the same time—except for Kiko who always had a smile and spoke only occasionally. “Mom,” she said, “we have a family meeting.”

Grandma sat down. Breathe. Look at them one by one.

“We can’t stop you,” Pia began, “but I hope you still think of us.”

“I think of you,” Grandma replied, “every day, even while I’m tasting flan.”

“Mom!” she almost shouted. “It’s not a joke. You are playing with our name. We’ve got kids—it’s embarrassing.”

“If the price of my pleasure is a shame, it might be the first payment I’m willing to give up,” Grandma said gently.

And that’s where the Marines came in. “Are you selfish, Mom. After everything we did. And now, if you need anything, you will leave us for… On the other hand… Is it for him?”

Grandma looked at the blue wall, as if her history was written there. “I’ve spent my back on wet blankets, my hand on hot broth, my time with your grandchildren’s alternate mom. Now, someone called my name—not as a mother, not as a grandmother—as Isadora. If that’s what you call selfishness, I wouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

“Ma…” Paul’s voice was soft, speaking for the first time. “Are you sure about him?”

“I’m not sure of anybody,” Grandma replied, “no one has ever been sure. But I’m sure I deserve to be loved.”

That night ended with no agreement to be reached. But for the first time, Grandma didn’t agree to be pushed into the kitchen.

---

Seventh Spoon: The Book with the Folds

On a Saturday afternoon, Rafael arrived at the house blue, carrying a diary—an old charcoal-colored cover, with a yellow page and smelly old paper.

“For you,” he said. “At the moment you want to talk to yourself.”

“You’re really good at gifting,” Grandma joked. “You have taught me to love yourself.”

“I won’t teach—I will,” he answered.

And that’s where Grandma’s letter began. On Sunday, at 6:00 a.m., he flipped through the front page:

“Dear Isadora,
did you see the line on your forehead? “Don’t iron it.” That’s a drawing of years, that’s not dirt.
*
Dear Isadora,When
they call you selfish, remind yourself: you were not created to be a bank. You were created to be human—with a heart, with passion, with a melody.”

And with each page, her voice grew louder.

---

Eighth Spoon: The Wedding Without a Dome

One Sunday, a simple afternoon, they walked through the town’s botanical garden. There weren’t too many people, no screaming stories to cling to their shoulders. There’s a small gazebo, there’s lilies on the side, there’s a child chasing butterflies.

“Isadora,” said Raphael quietly, as if speaking to the command of the wind, “do you want—not now—but one day—do you want… Shall I call you by my name?”

Grandma laughed, tears streaming down her face. “You’ve got a pretty good sense of humour. It’s like a poem that’s not very sure, but you know the light of the last verse.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” he replied. “When you’re ready.”

“If the world is what we are waiting for, it will not come. If it had been a heart attack, it would have been a long time ago.”

And that same afternoon, as the wind sniffed the leaves, Grandma decided. Not to fight the child. Not to show off to the neighbors. But to conform to a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time: Isadora, this is your life.

They called a wedding—not grand, not extended. There were two witnesses: an old friend Aling Puring and Rafael’s neighbor Jessa who knew how to play the accordion. In the gazebo, there is a white cloth, decorated with coconut leaves, with three candles on the sides.

Marites, Pia, Romy, or Paulo didn’t come. Kiko arrived—smiling, carrying a greeting book. Grandma’s three friends came to the reader’s company—smiling and tossing small sampaguita leaves.

“Isadora Santos,” the judge said, “are you ready…”

“Ready,” he answered—not to Rafael, but to himself, before anyone else had asked for it.

After saying “yes,” Ralph leaned into Grandma’s ear. “Mrs. Cruz, are you happy?”

“Too much,” he answered, “it seems as if the sun has a new recipe.”

---

Ninth Spoon: The Wednesday That Stopped

On the other side of the room, something happened to the door. At first, my grandmother thought it was ruined. On Wednesdays at 10 a.m., the secondary is not moving. It is only shown in X and II. It seems to be saying: Stop. Breathe.

“Did you see it?” asked Raphael, pointing to the ground. “Chose to pause, but not to finish, but to listen.”

“Are you listening?” asked Grandma, picking up a pan.

“To yourself,” replied Rafael.

And that night, on the first slice of the flan, Grandma heard something: the sounds of the previous year—the rustling of the soup, the cry of the child, the wings of the shawl, the arrangement of the blankets, the fatigue between the kitchen and the kitchen—all of it, little by little. Not to lose, but to make way.

---

Tenth Spoon: The Return and the Reading

One afternoon, Marcus knocked on the door. It doesn’t come with a full list, it doesn’t come with an emotional explosion. She had two children with her. The first five minutes were silent. He looked around—the living room was in a different order: there were books, there were plants, there were new curtains, and there was a small coffee table.

“Mom,” Marites said, and “Ma” shook her head like a wound that wanted to heal, “I’m sorry.”

“To alimony?”

“By compulsion… Don’t be happy.”

Silence. There is a smell of vanilla in the kitchen.

“I saw my therapist,” Marites continued. “He said… Maybe I shouldn’t be mad at you. I might have been angry with myself. Because I can’t do what you do: say yes to myself.”

Grandma grabbed her son’s hand. “Marites, there’s nothing wrong with loving someone else before yourself—because you have kids, you’re married. But don’t forget, you are not a loser if you love yourself. You still have a child to take home; You still have a mother to hug you.”

They looked at each other. And like the surprise of sugar over the flan, the tears fell unexpectedly.

“Are you happy, Mom?” she whispered.

“I’m so happy,” Grandma replied, “finally.”

“If that’s the case… I want to know Rafael, not as ‘a man my brother’s age,’ but as someone who makes you happy.”

“That’s a good start,” Grandma said. “And he has another talent.”

“Year?”

“He sings very well when he plays the guitar.”

And they laughed at the same time, as if they were back to old without much burden.

---

Eleventh Spoon: The Trial of the Ship

Not every story ends with an ‘apology’. A man came from the village—not formally, but sharper than a document: “Why do old men and young men hang out in the middle of the afternoon?” “Why is it that there is such a thing as a house with no respect for the neighbors?”

Grandma Iska attended a meeting of the Mother’s Association in the chapel. He took the recipe for the flan, he carried the diary.

“Good afternoon,” he began. “My name is Isadora. You may know me as “Mother of Five,” or “Grandmother of Ten.” But this afternoon, I’m going to introduce myself as Isadora—man.”

There was a scuffle, there was a scuffle, there was a scuffle on the side. Grandma, however, didn’t think twice.

“As you can imagine, I’ve been tempted by a man’s youth. Cow. Or maybe I’ve been tempted by my authenticity—which I’ve been covering up for a long time. If this is what you call the blasphemy of the age, please forgive me. But if there is a child inside you—not in the body, but inside—please don’t drive it out.”

Silence. A few looked down at the ground.

“Sometimes,” Grandma adds, “the hardest thing to resist is not the opinion of others, but the voice we have been trained to silence. The clock stops every Wednesday at 10 o’clock so I can hear your voice. And I heard it: ‘Isadora, take a breath.'”

Someone is running away, someone is coughing. And there was one hand clapping his hands—Which Puring. Followed by two, three. Until the chapel applauded, not because everyone agreed, but because an old man dared to say he loved himself—and had the courage to stand in the middle of the chapel to say so.

---

Twelfth Spoon: The Letter to the Future

In the diary, Lola wrote a letter not to Rafael, not to the children, but to her own future:

“Dear Isadora on the next Wednesday,In
case you forget that the world has stopped, put the saucepan on the fire, measure the milk, the egg, the sugar. Stir until the inside and outside are evenly matched.
*
When they say you’re timing wrong, wait for your temper to boil over—but with tenderness, not anger. On the first bubble, remember: time never forbids happiness. The only thing that is forbidden is to forget oneself.”

And at the end, there’s a secret ingredient that’s also written, finally:

“A drop of forgiveness—for oneself, before another.”

---

Thirteenth Spoon: The First Family to Return

One afternoon, Pia and Paulo arrived, carrying fruit. “Mom,” Pia said, “it’s—peacock.” Grandma looked up, smiled, and felt like she was back on the first day at the market.

“Can we eat here?” asked Paulo, almost passively, like a child who didn’t want to ask but hoped for a yes.

“Of course,” Grandma replied. “There is a flann.”

At the table, there were no sermons, no secret eyes. Grandma introduced Rafael—not as ‘my child’s husband,’ but as a friend of the home. Rafael, calm, honest, didn’t insist. They mingled. The children asked questions—about the work, about the book, about how they met.

“On the peaches,” Grandma replied, like a punchline of a long joke.

And they all laughed. For the first time, laughter is not a fight, not a defense—a break.

---

Fourteenth Spoon: The Return of the Sigh

Ralph and Grandma were walking along the river in the afternoon. The sky was orange, like a peacock. They stopped at the bridge, and there, in the murmur of water, came a faint voice that did not seem to come from man: thank you.

“Who do you think you are thankful for?” asked Raphael.

“Maybe those years,” said Grandma, “that I let go by without a break. Maybe they’ll thank me and I’ll give them a ceremony—even if it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late,” Raphael replied. “There’s still a lot of work to be done.”

“There are a lot of flannels,” Grandma laughed.

“There are plenty of poems to spare,” replied Rafael, and taking out the little piece of paper, read:

“If the plate is the weather and you’re the dish,
don’t be afraid of the heat—that’s where you’ll taste.
Don’t be afraid to take a long time—that’s where you’ll be sweet.
And don’t deny yourself,
the first spoon.”

---

Fifteenth Spoon: The Wednesday Running

Months passed. Even though not all children come to the same table, they come one word at a time. At one point Romy, along with her son Dax, brought garden tools and repaired the fence. At one point, Marites was carrying two curtains—”Mom, it’s more of a blue thing.” At one point, Paul silently carried a book that he wanted to lend to Rafael.

Nikki, there is no denying it. “Mom,” he once said, “do you know that my coffee habit has diminished since I saw you laugh?”

“Bakit?”

“It’s like waking up in three cups of barbershop to see you’re happy.”

And on a Wednesday, the clock didn’t stop. It ran—not to return the hurry, but to keep up. A few pauses are enough; It’s time for some moving moments.

“Rafael,” said Grandma, “it doesn’t stop at ten o’clock.”

“Bakit?”

“Of course, the house has heard what it needs to hear. Nothing needs to stop—it just needs to continue.”

Raphael smiled. “Time has learned… “To you.”

---

Sixteenth Spoon: The Endless Play

Grandma had prepared a feast—not for the anniversary, not for the occasion. It’s just a celebration of continuity. There’s pancit, there’s adobo, there’s mango salad, and of course, there’s flan—with a secret ingredient: a drop of forgiveness.

The different faces of the family arrived—a mixture of him, a mixture of joy. The neighbor arrived, with the accordion. Friends came to the reader’s company with a poem.

In the middle, Lola and Rafael, not fancy couples, nor images to be emphasized on Facebook—just people, friends, couples, together in the recipe for time.

At the end of the meal, Marcus stood up. “Mom,” she said, “I wish I could say… Thank you.”

“To alimony?”

“By forcing you to love yourself—because I’ve also learned to ask, ‘Where am I in this life?’ It’s not clear yet, but it’s getting started.”

Pia nodded, hugging her mother. “Me too, Mom. I’m still scared, but I want to try.”

Romy and Paulo followed—not a big word, but a hug. And in an instant, it was as if they had shared the first spoonful of flan—equally sweet, equally tender.

---

Last Spoon: Why the Clock Stopped—and Why It Ran Again

If you ask Grandma Iska why the clock stops every Wednesday, at ten o’clock, she’ll say: “Because there’s something that needs to be heard inside, and if the world is moving, you can’t hear it.”

Asked why he was running again, he said: “Because I’ve heard it.”

And in his diary, on the very last page, he wrote:

*”Isadora, if you are still called selfish, remember: the ‘self’ is not a fortress against others; Self is the first home of love.
*
*And if anyone asks what’s the secret to flan, smile. Say, “Time.” And if they insist on another, say, “Forgiveness.”
When
you put the two together, the clock stops—and then it goes on again, not to chase the world, but to accompany you.”

That night, before going to bed, Rafael sang—tuned, yes—while Grandma set the table. He laughed, shook his head, and went along with the language of a house that could already breathe.

Outside, there are whispers of neighbors, lights disappearing and coming back. Inside, there was a watch, there was a saucepan, there were two people. And between them, there was a Wednesday that will never be forgotten—not because time stood still, but because it learned to tune in to the beat.

And if one day, anyone says he’s selfish, Grandma Iska will just laugh, taste the flan, and reply:

“If it’s my fault, I’ll keep going. I have learned to love myself without diminishing my love for you.”

At the other end of the table, Rafael whispered: “Isadora… It’s delicious.”

And the whole blue house would answer—to the sound of the dishes, to the smell of sugar, to the chiming of the clock—yes.

The end—which isn’t really the end yet.