Carina Javier
There are days when grief feels heavier than usual. On those days, I find myself reaching for small comforts—familiar food, quiet places, and spaces that hold memories I am still learning to carry.
Ate Ysay’s homemade snacks and refreshing treats
As a solo parent, I learned to navigate many unforeseen challenges. But nothing prepared me for the loss of my youngest son, JM. For nearly a decade, we walked together through his struggle with mental health—years marked by hope, setbacks, and quiet resilience. He was first diagnosed with major depressive disorder at sixteen, and later, we came to understand that he was also living with bipolar disorder.
When he passed away in August 2022, I found myself moving through grief in silence, rarely stepping outside the familiar walls of home. Often, I would message Ate Ysay—our community’s beloved supplier of homemade snacks and comfort food. She doesn’t run a café or a storefront, just a small kitchen from her home, but her food has a way of arriving exactly when it’s needed.
In many ways, Ate Ysay has become more than just my go-to for favorite snacks—her sandwiches, tusok-tusok (finger foods), and simple home-cooked meals. She has also become a quiet source of comfort on days when loneliness begins to seep in.
She works tirelessly, starting her day as early as five in the morning to prepare her menu. By early afternoon, she posts it on our community Facebook pages. Like a small neighborhood eatery, she keeps regular hours, usually from three to eight in the evening.
Her offerings go beyond merienda. She also prepares light dinner meals—pork adobo with rice, chicken pastil, binagoongan, and my usual order — chicken fingers with her savory homemade sauce.
What makes her story even more remarkable is that she does all of this while living with a rare medical condition that causes her legs to swell, making movement painful and difficult. And yet, she continues.
The only time her kitchen falls silent is when she needs to be hospitalized for check-ups and treatment. Even then, she takes the time to post a simple message—“closed po today”—to let her regular customers know.
I remember the first time she was hospitalized, during the holidays. There was a quiet sense that something was missing in our daily routine. So, when she later reached out for help with her mounting medical expenses, our community responded in small but meaningful ways. One by one, people sent what they could.
She later posted a message of gratitude—a simple thank you to the NIA-NPC community.
And in that moment, I realized that what she had built was not just a small food business, but something more enduring: a space of care, quietly held together by kindness, resilience, and the everyday act of showing up.
Sadly, Luisa M. Dulay, or Ate Ysay, as she was popularly known in our community, passed away last May due to complications of her lingering illness.
Her husband, older daughter, and other family members took over her food business, and her brand, “Ate Ysay’s, May the Sauce be with You,” remains alive in our neighborhood and the surrounding areas.
Memories of Places
There are also places that hold memories—spaces I once shared with my son, and now return to in quieter ways.
There is a small, unpretentious coffee shop in our neighborhood that I fondly call “the Starbucks of NIA Village.” It holds some of my most cherished memories with JM. Over the years, it has changed with the times—starting as a samgyupsal spot, adapting through the pandemic as a take-out and delivery venue, and eventually becoming an al fresco restaurant.
In 2025, it was renovated into a smaller, cozier, air-conditioned café. I still find myself returning every now and then to order familiar favorites like their winter melon milkshake and fish fillets.
I also remember one of the last times we were there as a family. It was early April 2022, just a couple of days before my eldest son Ryan’s wedding. He had invited us out for what he fondly called his “farewell to bachelorhood” meal.
It was a simple gathering—just food, laughter, and the easy comfort of being together. At the time, it felt like any other ordinary evening. Looking back now, it has become one of those moments I hold close—quietly grateful for the time we had, without knowing how much it would come to mean.
On his birthday in November 2025, a group of JM’s high school friends invited me to join them for an early dinner. As we shared a meal, the conversation naturally turned to him—stories of who he was, how he laughed, how he loved spending time in that very place.
In those moments, I felt his presence again—not as I used to, but in the warmth of shared memories and the quiet comfort of knowing he is still remembered.
Beyond Grief: Moving Forward
Beyond these familiar spaces, I have slowly begun to step outside again—seeking moments of movement and quiet in places where I can breathe.
One of these is the Quezon Memorial Circle. I have walked its paths many times over the years, but returning to it after loss felt different. The wide-open spaces, the rhythm of people walking, jogging, or simply sitting under the trees—it offered a kind of quiet companionship.
There, I learned that healing does not always happen in stillness. Sometimes, it comes in movement—in putting one foot in front of the other, in allowing yourself to be part of the world again, even in small ways, and in being with longtime friends who share my memories of JM.
There are also moments when healing arrives through the kindness of others.
In November 2024, on what would have been JM’s birthday, a dear friend reached out, knowing it might be a difficult day. She invited me to lunch at Solaire Resort North Vertis—a place I had heard about but never been to before.
It was an unexpected gesture, and one I didn’t realize I needed. In that space, far from the familiar, I allowed myself to simply be—to enjoy a meal, to listen, and to be gently reminded that even in grief, there is still room for moments of lightness.
Healing does not always come in big, life-changing moments. Sometimes, it comes quietly—in a meal, in a familiar place, in the courage to step outside again. —Carina Javier
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Also Read:
- 10 Ways Solo Parents Can Support a Child Struggling with Mental Health
- 7 Surprising Ways Food and Local Culture Turn Trips Into Lifelong Memories
