My eldest uncle returned home after 20 years in prison, but my youngest uncle locked the door, my third uncle pretended to be sick, only my father opened the door to welcome me, and then my whole family was stunned when they learned the truth…

That year, I was eighteen years old, the first time I saw my father cry like a child. In the middle of my grandparents’ yard in a quiet barangay in Taal, Batangas, my father stood still in front of a man with gray hair. His trembling hands hugged him tightly—as if letting go would make him disappear forever.

That was my eldest uncle—Tito Andres, my father’s older brother (Mr. Ramon)—who had just finished serving his sentence after twenty years of absence.

Since I was little, I had only heard adults mention him with hesitant, reserved words. Some said he went to Manila to make a living, others said he caused trouble that made the family suffer. My mother just told me not to be curious: “Adults have their reasons.”

The day my uncle returned, the whole neighborhood held its breath. The youngest uncle—Tito Ben—closed the gate; the third uncle—Tito Mario—was curled up under his blanket, saying he was too tired to get up. Only my father—who had never spoken ill of or blamed his brother—was standing in the middle of the yard, his hands trembling as he opened the narra wooden door that had darkened over the years. I still remember clearly the look in my father’s eyes at that moment: joy, emotion, and aching for something that could not be named.

My uncle entered the yard, his figure thin, walking slowly as if he were walking in a dream. My father rushed to hug him. No one said anything. There was only the sound of the wind from the Taal Lake shore blowing through the coconut trees, and my heart pounding.

That night, amid the hum of the tricycle outside the alley and the distant ringing of the church bells, I overheard the conversation between the two. My uncle asked:
— Is everyone… okay?

My father nodded:
— Yes, it’s just… not everyone can forget the past.

He was silent for a moment and then said:
— I don’t expect forgiveness, I just want to know… do you still trust me?

My father squeezed his hand:
— If you didn’t trust me, you wouldn’t have opened the door.

I didn’t understand what “old stories” were. I only saw two men: one carrying a wound in his heart, the other holding back a bit of affection.

Until I happened to see the bag my uncle was carrying. In it was an old notebook and a few faded photos. On the cover of the notebook was a line in Tagalog: “Mga Liham para kay Ramon” (Letters to Ramon).

Each page, each line were the confidences my uncle had written during his lonely years. He said that when his family was gradually settling down in Batangas, he was deceived by a trusted acquaintance, leading to serious difficulties. In the chaos, he was forced to borrow money to keep “lupang ninuno”—the land of his ancestors. But things got worse and worse.

And then… my uncle got into a big incident. No one in the family understood the whole story; people just looked at the results and turned away. In the book, my uncle did not blame anyone. He only wrote that he missed home, missed his younger brother, missed the sound of the rooster crowing in the morning, the smell of coconut smoke, and wished that one day he could return… “just to stand in the yard, and take a breath of the smell of home is enough.”

I was speechless.

That forgotten person, it turned out, had tried to preserve the good things for the extended family. The person who had been misunderstood for twenty years was the one who devoted himself to protecting the roots of this family.

I brought the book to my father. My father read it for a long time, his eyes filled with tears, then told me to go with him to my youngest uncle’s house.

As soon as he saw my father, my youngest uncle snapped:
— You want to defend him again?

My father just put the book on the table:
— Read it. If you still want to blame him later, then go ahead.

Three days later, my youngest uncle came to my house, his eyes filled with concern, his voice low:

I… didn’t expect things to turn out like this.

He just smiled and nodded:

I’m glad to be home and see everyone safe.

The next day, my third uncle also came, carrying a basket of Carabao mangoes and a few coconuts, talking and laughing as if he had never been cold.

I didn’t know how long he would stay. But from that day on, my house seemed to be lit up again. Laughter echoed throughout the yard, the sound of kapeng barako teacups clinking in the afternoon breeze, and the sound of old stories filled with both love and forgiveness.

Now I understand: sometimes, all it takes is an open arm to soothe twenty years of silence. And if anyone asks where kindness begins, I will say: “From the narra gate that my father opened that day, in Taal—where a family found their way home after many years of storms.