"We should have taken a taxi."
"Taxis aren't exactly lining the streets in the province, Matthew," Helen, his mother replied, her voice a strained thread of calm, fighting to be heard over the metallic scream of the tricycle.
"Of course they're not," he grumbled.
If the noise were the only problem, he might have survived. But the noise was just the opening act in a series of misery. It was the rattling that vibrated up his spine and felt like it was shaking his teeth loose. It was the way the old roads, rutted and potholes, threw him against their luggage with every sharp turn. It was the heat, a physical pain that scraped him, wet and suffocating, plastering his shirt to his back like a second, miserable coat. This wasn't a journey; it was a special kind of hell designed just for him.
"Christ, are we there yet?!" he roared, the words swallowed by the engine's noise.
"Almost!" she shouted back.
He scoffed, a plume of hot air, and rolled his eyes at the blur of green rushing past. He hated her in this moment. Hated her with a purity he'd never felt back in London, where life had a grey, sensible order. Back there, he'd only disliked her, the way any teenager is required to dislike a parent. But this—this was a betrayal. She had taken his world, his familiar, predictable life, and snapped it over her knee like a dry twig, all for a pilgrimage to a past he never asked to be a part of, to meet relatives who were nothing more than names in a distant story.
"Mat—"
The world lurched. A violent jolt, a loud bang that sounded like a gunshot, and the tricycle groaned, rolling to a shuddering, pathetic stop. The sudden, ringing silence was somehow more offensive than the noise had been. He was out of the sidecar in a heartbeat, his face a mask of sweat and fury.
"What the bloody hell was that?" he barked, dragging his hands through his hair. He would've jumped at the tricycle driver if it weren't for Helen who emerged with the caution of someone used to things breaking. She placed a hand on his arm, a gentle tug on his frustration, then he pulled him to the side while the poor tricycle driver inspected his sidecar like it was his family pet.
"Matthew, calm down—"
"Calm down?!" he snapped, ripping his arm from her grasp as if her touch burned him. "I told you we should have stayed at an apartment, but noOooOo, you had to drag me out to the arse-end of nowhere and stuff me into that—" he gestured wildly at the wounded vehicle, "—that thing!"
"What about your family, huh?!" He continued. "Shouldn't they pick us up?!"
His voice, sharp and laced with a Brixton edge, carried in the still, scorching air.
Heads turned, then it became a scene. The neighborhood suddenly awoke, faces in doorways, eyes peering over fences—a slow, silent audience to their drama. He could feel their stares like insects on his skin, but the anger was a roaring fire that incinerated any flicker of embarrassment.
"Matthew, please," she began again, her voice soft but with a spine of steel. "We talked about this. Their car's in repair, and plus, I haven't seen my family in years. They're here to help. Tita Dawn, your cousin Amor—"
"I don't give a shit!" he cut in, crossing his arms, a bulldog stance against the world. "I didn't want to come here. I don't need their help. I didn't need—"
She stopped him by seizing his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. He tried to pull away, but she held fast.
"I know why you're upset," she said, her voice quiet, trembling just enough for him to notice. "I know because I've been you. I left everyone I knew behind when I moved to Europe. It wasn't easy, Matthew. Believe me." Her eyes, so often tired, were now bright with a fierce, painful clarity. "This is all we've got now. They are all we've got. Your education, my job… all those miserable first weeks in the UK…"
"This is different," Matthew looked away, groaning like he had heard this script a thousand times before. "Dad just died, my aunts threw us out, and now we're basically beggars."
"Oh Matthew," Helen cupped his cheeks pulling his face to meet her eyes. "I know it's hard now, but trust me, it's going to get better! I know it will."
Her vulnerability was a trick, a weapon she always knew how to use. It chipped away at the walls of his anger, leaving him exposed. Guilt, cold and tranquility, began to seep in.
"Once I get a job," she continued, her lips curving into a bittersweet smile. "Things will get easier and... And with family's help we'd be stable in no time!" With her gentle touch, her thumb brushed the tense line of his jaw
"You put so much faith in these strangers," he quipped, the words a reflex, the venom already gone.
She actually laughed, a small, warm sound that felt like the first real thing he'd heard all day. "I have you, so it'll be easier to convince them," she replied, her voice dropping to a playful tease. "My handsome, darling, sweet little—"
"Alright, alright, geez!" Matthew pulled away, but he couldn't stop the faint smile that tugged at his own lips. There was a sweetness to him, buried deep, and she was the only one left who knew how to dig for it.
"Someday, this place will make you happy," she said, ruffling his hair.
"I doubt it," he muttered, turning as the old driver approached, hat in hand.
"Ma'am, my apologies, but the tire's blown. The road ahead is worse. I can't risk my vehicle further."
"Fucking hell," Matthew breathed, the curse a quiet, defeated thing.
The driver scratched the back of his neck. "I can refund part of your fare, and I'm calling a friend to pick you up, if that's alright."
"That's fine, Manong…?" his mother prompted kindly.
"Andi, ma'am," he said, his face brightening, a reminder of the hospitality she had missed, a kindness Matthew didn't buy, mainly because he stranded them.
After reciting a mental library of curses, Matthew watched as Andi made calls on a phone that looked like it had survived several wars. His mother sat on a vandalized stone block by the roadside. "You know," she said, far too cheerfully, "I can't believe you've never had a single fling."
"Really? Of all the topics in the known universe, you land on that? Bold choice, Mum," Matthew retorted.
"It's true," she teased. "You're attractive, talented. Just so… closed. Maybe you should—"
"Let's not," he interrupted, his tone flat, a door slamming shut.
A new tricycle sputtered into view then, its horn beeping a jaunty, obnoxious tune. It pulled up beside them, a newer, shinier version of their broken-down chariot.
"Mang Andi! What the heck happened, you old bloke? Engine finally gave up?" the new driver called out, grinning as he killed his own engine.
"Gago! Tire popped, no big deal," Andi shot back, his demeanor shifting instantly into familiar banter. Matthew stood beside them, a silent, surprised observer. The new driver's eyes landed on him, a quick, curious appraisal of the foreigner with the thundercloud expression.
"This your passenger?" the man asked Andi.
"Yeah," Andi replied, brushing dust from his jacket. "Listen, these people have places to be and I don't think this old thing could survive another trip in that unfinished road, mind taking over?"
"Uh..." The man looked at the luggage as if he was looking at a freight, a number of cargo from a ship that looked like it could sink.
Before he could answer, a blur of motion from the new tricycle's sidecar caught Matthew's eye. A voice, high and clear as a bell that sliced through the air.
"OH. MY. GOSH! Tita, is that you?!"