the bracelet scene

found a scene from the girl from mandaue tonight — a birthday fight between haya and her mother nene, in a small kitchen. what caught me is how the writing handles grief through objects instead of saying it outright.

mid-argument, haya touches her bracelets. eight of them, made by her dead father. the writing just… stops fighting and holds still:

small, delicate abalone shells that shimmered with iridescent blues and greens. interwoven with the shells were tiny pieces of polished driftwood and smooth sea glass. but the most precious part was a tiny starfish, carefully coated with something transparent to preserve it, making it shine softly.

the bracelet is the argument. everything haya can’t say about missing her father is sitting on her wrist. the writing trusts you to feel that.

nene doesn’t get a bracelet. she gets a pot:

her stirring grew more forceful, sending the liquid swirling dangerously close to the pot’s rim.

she doesn’t cry. she stirs harder. the stew almost boils over. the stew is her.

and then this quiet thing early on:

the worn surface was smooth under her touch, except for tiny dents where a knife or a hot pan had left their mark over the years.

the countertop has scars from years of use. the whole family history lives in that sentence, and it doesn’t ask you to notice.