I was sixty-two that year, three years into retirement, and still adjusting to days that moved a little slower. My daughter Maricel had married and moved to Manila, where she and her husband Rafael lived in a bright, modern apartment high above the city. I visited often to help with cleaning and cooking. It made me feel useful, and seeing my daughter settled and cared for always eased my mind.
That morning began like any other. I had taken the early bus from the province, watching the sun rise as I made my way toward the city. Maricel had called before I boarded.
