When You Realize Family Isn’t Guaranteed (But Pie Helps)

 One of our guest rooms is now my little creative cave. I converted it into a mini office-slash-studio. I love this spot — the morning light floods through the windows like it knows I need help getting out of bed. It’s where I used to paint.

Keyword: used to.

Because now? I hardly paint. I write. I make books. I fall into rabbit holes of stories and fonts and research and suddenly it’s 2 a.m. and I forgot to eat again. Something happened. Writing has me by the throat in the most healing, tender way. It's my version of therapy, except cheaper and with less emotional eye contact.

Here’s what I didn’t expect at 50-something: to finally let myself feel things I shoved into storage boxes three decades ago. To grieve stuff I didn’t know I was allowed to grieve. To dream about things I once laughed off — like publishing actual books. Not journals with three sad poems and a grocery list. I mean real books, with ISBNs and deadlines and feelings and printer errors and "why is this font haunted?" moments.

And it all started because I found out I was going to be a grandmother.

When I heard the news, it was like someone unlocked a room in my brain I forgot existed. Stories started bubbling up. Old legends. Myths from childhood. Recipes that lived in my muscle memory. Scenes of my kids licking batter off spoons and yelling over who got the corner slice of pineapple cake.

Suddenly, I wanted to make books for them. Not just “books,” but storybooks with heart and flavor and identity. One part culture, one part grandma magic. Kiddie recipe books so they’ll always remember the cookies they grew up with. And now, a Flags of Asia book for my second grandson, who's still in the Philippines — my little flag-obsessed baby who video calls me while holding a globe upside down.

Honestly, I just want to pass something down that doesn’t melt in a balikbayan box.

I’ve even petitioned my kids to move here. All of them. I just want us to be together again. Sam, my third daughter, married a Filipino who was born and raised in the U.S., so they live in Las Vegas now with my first grandson. That’s where we’re headed for Thanksgiving.

Which — by the way — is huge. After over 10 years of living in the States, I’m finally celebrating Thanksgiving with my side of the family. Do you know how rare that is when you marry into someone else’s calendar?

When I told my mother-in-law years ago that we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in the Philippines, her face did that white-woman-clutching-pearl-necklace thing. I think she thought we were all ungrateful? Ma’am. We didn’t have Abraham Lincoln. We had Marcos. Also, being half-Chinese, we celebrate the Lunar Festival. We eat mooncakes and trauma. You’re welcome.

But back to now — I’m so excited. My daughter’s a little overwhelmed, understandably, because my husband cooking in someone else’s kitchen is a lot. (He takes over. He also acts like garlic is a personality trait. And I'm not going to tell you how much butter he uses.) I told her: prep what you can, we’ll take care of the rest. It’ll be her first real Thanksgiving. My first with my own blood. There’s something about that I didn’t know I needed.

And maybe that’s why this memory came back today.

I started thinking about my ex-father-in-law.

He’s 81 now. He grew up poor in the slums of Manila — all boys, which explains a lot. Tough, sharp, street-smart. Got into the best university. Became a professor. Radio host. TV personality. A literal senator. Black belt in Arnis. Defense Secretary of the Philippines. He was that guy who did everything and still managed to make it to his gym class. I used to joke that he’d get a nosebleed if he wasn’t productive for five minutes.

But now... he’s quiet. Weak. Hard of hearing. The last time my kids saw him, they said he barely spoke.

He used to be the main character in every family gathering. He would hire a pianist, and he'd be singing all night. Loved telling stories where, plot twist: he was always the hero. But now he mostly just sits. Surrounded by the second wife’s family — loud, present, but not his. You can see it in his eyes, sometimes. That haunted look of wait, where did everyone go?

He asked for a family reunion recently. His side. His blood.

I wonder if he realized it too late — how important your own people are. His children, grandchildren, all slowly drifted away, tired from the coldness, the politics, the hierarchy. My kids were his only grandkids and even they felt it. Still, they showed up. Even when it was awkward. Even when the new family felt like guests in a house they used to own.

Now he’s old. And I think sometimes he looks around and thinks, This isn’t my family. They don’t look like me.

And it hit me. That can’t be my story.

I don’t want to wake up one day surrounded by noise but feeling alone.

The older I get, the more I crave my children’s laughter. The kind that echoes through hallways and interrupts your coffee mid-sip. I want the chaos of toddlers and teenagers and half-baked brownies. I want the late-night convos, the quick grocery runs, the "can I borrow your charger again" moments. I want my grandsons to grow up knowing that family isn’t just who's present — it’s who shows up, again and again, even when it's hard.

So here’s the lesson — if you want one:

Start your reunions now.
Before the hospital visits.
Before the regret.
Before you're the one looking around wondering where everybody went.

So yeah. I'm sitting here in this sunny little room, not painting, but telling stories that took me 54 years to say out loud.
And I don't know if they'll remember every word.
But maybe they'll remember the feeling.
That someone, somewhere, loved them enough to write it all down.

And maybe... bake them this pie.

---

🥧 The Pecan Pie That Made My Husband Emotional (Almost)

I didn’t grow up with pecan pie. It wasn’t a thing in our house. But I learned to make it after moving here — and it’s now the Thanksgiving dessert at our table. My husband doesn’t just like this pie. He respects it. He clears fridge space for it days before. He stares at it while it cools like it owes him money.

Serve it warm with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream or Cool Whip (his request). And please—make it ahead. Let it set properly. Day-of pie is a risk we don’t take in this house.

---

📋 Ingredients:

• 1 cup white sugar

• 3 Tbsp. brown sugar

• ½ tsp. salt

• 1 cup light corn syrup

• ⅓ cup melted salted butter

• 3 whole eggs, beaten

• ¾ tsp. vanilla

• 1 heaping cup chopped or whole pecans (whichever makes your soul feel something)

• 1 unbaked 9-inch pie crust (store-bought or homemade, I’m not judging your life)

---

🥣 Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C if you're international and still measuring your worth in grams).

2. In a bowl, stir together the sugars, salt, corn syrup, melted butter, eggs, and vanilla until well combined.

3. Pour the chopped pecans into the bottom of the unbaked pie shell. If you're using whole and want to be artsy, then go for it! Really your call, you’re the artist here

4. . Let them nestle in like they pay rent.

5. Pour the sweet filling mixture gently over the pecans. Yes, it’ll look chaotic. We love that.

6. Tent the pie lightly with foil (don’t wrap it like leftovers, just a gentle shield).

7. Bake for 30 minutes, then remove the foil and continue baking for another 20 minutes.

   • If the center is still very jiggly, cover it again and bake in 10-minute increments until mostly set. Slight wobble is okay. Earthquake is not.

8. Let it cool completely — several hours or overnight is best. The longer it sits, the better it behaves.

---

Serve with:

• Vanilla ice cream

• Cool Whip

• Your therapist (optional, but honestly, emotional support dessert is real)

---

Whether or not you celebrate Thanksgiving, or even believe in crusts that flake, I hope this pie brings you a little warmth. The kind that lingers. The kind you pass down.

Because family isn’t guaranteed.
But pie? Pie helps.