I nourished the part of myself that had been hungry for home.

I’ve spent money on a lot of things over the years—rent, tuition, flights, remittances, responsibilities that stretch longer than receipts. But the most I’ve ever willingly spent on a meal was not in a Michelin-starred restaurant or a glossy city abroad. It was in my hometown, Cebu, in a private room I booked inside Queen Hotel, for a night that needed no grand introduction. My younger brother had just graduated. After years of working abroad and sending money home, missing milestones and meals alike, I finally had the chance to be present—not just through GCash or balikbayan boxes, but in the flesh. And so, I did what my heart had long been waiting to do: I showed up, and I showed up big.

I showed up, and I showed up big.

We dined at Pusô Bistro and Bar, an eat-all-you-can restaurant whose name alone whispered of heart. I didn’t flinch when I saw the price. For once, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that my brother—quiet, brilliant, and always trying his best—was seated at the head of the table with his chin held a little higher than usual. My mom was beside him, her smile soft and proud, the kind of smile that doesn’t ask for credit, only presence. We filled our plates and our cups, but more than anything, we filled that room with something unmeasurable: time. The kind of time I hadn’t been able to give them for so long. It wasn’t just food. It was every silent sacrifice coming full circle. It was love plated and served warm.

I sat there watching him, this boy I once carried, now a man stepping into his own future, and I thought: no amount of money could ever repay the debt of moments lost to distance. But this? This moment? It was mine to give. I didn’t care what it cost. Because when you’re an OFW, and especially when you’re the eldest, you live with a kind of longing that money alone can’t fix. We pay in missed birthdays, delayed holidays, and FaceTime calls that never feel like enough. So when we finally get the chance to sit down—physically, fully, finally—we don’t count coins. We count presence.

And that’s what this meal was. Not an indulgence, but a declaration. A quiet vow that even if I couldn’t always be there, I would make the moments that I could count. I gave them that night not as a provider, not as someone who’s “made it” abroad, but as a sister, a daughter, a family member who knows that real wealth is found in the people who remember your laughter, not your salary. There was no speech, no fancy backdrop—just rice, roasted meats, desserts we barely had room for, and eyes that glistened with something more than tears. With enough.

The most expensive meals are not paid with cash.
They are paid with time, and presence, and love that finally gets to sit down and rest at the table.

And if I could go back, I’d do it all over again.
Because the most expensive meals are not paid with cash.
They are paid with time, and presence, and love that finally gets to sit down and rest at the table.

That night, I didn’t just feed my family—I nourished the part of myself that had been hungry for home.