There comes a time when children begin to keep parts of their lives to themselves. They say it usually starts during the teenage years—or sometime after that.
No matter how close you are or how tightly knit your family is, one day you may wake up realizing that you know only a little about what is happening in their lives. They say children naturally become more private as they grow older, until some things are simply no longer shared with their parents.
And they say, "It's okay. It's part of growing up."
The Silent Table
Like most restaurants these days, it had a television playing a K-drama. By the way, I have a confession to make. I am a total semi-addict when it comes to K-dramas. 😀 In no time, my eyes were completely glued to the screen.
Yeye finally got annoyed with my lack of attention and blurted out, "Di na ba tayo mag-uusap?"
"Okay. Let's talk!" I replied.
Then came silence. It suddenly felt awkward.
Why? Because it hit me right then and there. This was actually happening to my children. It had been a while since they had last told me stories about themselves.
Lately, though, we hadn't been talking much during meals, even at home. It hadn't been that long, but I was beginning to get used to it.
Was that really a good thing?
The Litany of Questions
That afternoon, they didn't volunteer stories the way they used to. Instead, I found myself doing all the asking.
- "How are...?"
- "What is...?"
- "Where...?"
- "Why...?"
- "When...?"
- "Who...?"
A little of everything. The answers they gave were short. We were still happy, yes, but this wasn't us. And I didn't think it was good.
On our drive home, I finally began my motherly little litany:
"What do we usually talk about whenever we're gathered around the dining table—or even when we're simply together? We've always been used to telling stories about ourselves, right? I am used to hearing about your lives. What I knew about you when you were younger, or even last year, last month, or last week, is different from yesterday and today. What happened? I feel like I haven't heard from you in quite some time."
According to them, it wasn't that they no longer wanted to share. They simply didn't think I needed to know the "little things" anymore. Maybe growing up had convinced them those little details no longer mattered. Besides, social media had become the place where they shared many of their stories.
I understood that it wasn't intentional. But I also knew that habits have a way of becoming patterns. If they became accustomed to keeping even the little things to themselves, perhaps one day they might stop sharing the important things as well.
Maybe I was exaggerating. But maybe walls are built exactly that way—not all at once, but little by little. And I didn't want that to happen.
So I told them that hearing about their lives—even the ordinary, seemingly insignificant moments—didn't mean I wasn't allowing them to grow up or live independent lives. It simply meant that we were continuing to know one another.
Because families don't stay close by merely living under one roof. They stay close by sharing their joys, disappointments, victories, frustrations, ordinary days, and little stories. That's what keeps a family connected.
So I looked at them and asked one last question. "Are we... or are we not?"
Looking back today, I smile whenever I remember that conversation.
It wasn't really about wanting to know everything about my children. It was about protecting something we had always treasured—the habit of coming home to one another through stories.
I have learned that closeness doesn't happen by accident. It is built one conversation at a time.
Sometimes, all it takes is someone willing to ask, "How was your day?"—and someone else willing to answer.