“My Parents” by Aeryn Bautista, 15

I have lived most of my life with a quiet, persistent fear sitting in the back of my mind. It is not the kind of fear that appears suddenly and disappears just as quickly. It is a constant hum, sometimes soft enough for me to forget, but always present when I slow down long enough to notice. It is the fear of losing my parents.

My parents are both in their sixties. For some people, that may not sound very old, but for me—still young, with so much of my life ahead—it feels like I am already racing against time. My mom has high blood pressure and is vulnerable to heart disease. My dad is often sick and has high cholesterol. These are just facts about their health, but to me, they are also quiet warnings.

When I was a child, those warnings didn’t come in the form of medical terms or blood test results. They came in the form of a memory that has stayed with me: my mom being taken to the hospital for heart problems. I was too young to understand exactly what was happening, but I understood enough to know that something was very wrong. That night, I remember lying in bed feeling like the world had shifted.

After that, the nightmares started. In my dreams, my mom would collapse in front of me. Sometimes I would try to call for help, but no sound would come out. Other times, I would see her in a hospital bed, her hand cold in mine. I would wake up with my heart pounding, afraid to close my eyes again.

The fear didn’t go away as I got older—it simply changed shape. I began to understand the health risks my parents carry, and I learned how heart disease and high cholesterol can shorten lives. I also began to notice my parents’ habits and choices, the way they would push off going to the doctor or avoid routine checkups.

Part of this is cultural. My family is Filipino, and like many in our community, my parents often see going to the doctor as unnecessary unless there’s a serious problem. Preventative care isn’t a strong tradition in our household. There is also a quiet pride in them—a belief that they can manage on their own, that they are strong enough to get through anything without help. I respect that strength, but I can’t help wishing they would see the doctor more often.

Sometimes I try to gently suggest it. My mom will smile and say she’s fine. My dad will wave me off and change the subject. I don’t push too hard. I know they have their reasons. But every time they brush it off, I feel a familiar knot tighten in my chest.

It is strange, being so young and carrying this awareness of time. Most people my age are focused on the future—on careers, dreams, and adventures waiting to happen. I think about those things too, but always with the shadow of another question: Will my parents be there to see them?

I can’t control their health. I can’t make them live forever. But I can choose how I spend the time I have with them.

That choice has become my quiet mission. I try to be present when I’m with them, even during ordinary moments. If my mom is cooking, I stand beside her and watch how she seasons the food, memorizing her movements. If my dad is watching TV, I sit with him, even if I’m not interested in the show. I want to remember the sound of their voices, the way they laugh, the little details that make them who they are.

Sometimes we go out together—grocery shopping, walking in the park, visiting relatives. These aren’t grand events, but they are moments that make up the rhythm of our lives. I’ve learned that love is not only found in big gestures but in the everyday routines we share.

There are also the conversations. My parents don’t always open up easily about their pasts, but when they do, I listen closely. My dad will talk about growing up in the province, about climbing trees to get fruit. My mom will tell me about the shop they owned together in the Philippines. These stories connect me to them in a deeper way. They remind me that they were young once, too, with their own dreams and fears.

I’ve realized that my fear of losing them is not only about death—it’s also about change. I know that as time passes, they will slow down. They will become more fragile. The people who once carried me in their arms will need me to carry them. That thought scares me, but it also gives me purpose.

I am learning to see this fear not as a weakness, but as a guide. It reminds me to say “I love you” more often, to forgive small disagreements quickly, to notice the good in each day. It pushes me to be a better daughter, one who does not take her parents for granted.

Still, there are moments when the fear hits hard. When I hear my dad coughing late at night, I lie awake, listening. When my mom says she feels dizzy, my mind races through all the worst possibilities. In those moments, I am that frightened child again, bracing for the worst.

But alongside that fear is something else: determination. I am determined to make the most of the time I have with them, however long that may be. I am determined to create memories that will outlast the years, memories I can hold onto no matter what happens.

I know I can’t stop the clock. I can’t protect them from every illness or injury. But I can make sure that when I look back, I will know I loved them fully, without holding back.

One day, the time will come when they are no longer here. That thought will always be painful. But I want to be able to say that I gave them my time, my attention, my care. I want to be able to remember not just the fear, but the laughter, the shared meals, the car rides, the small moments that made our lives together beautiful.

Some people might say that thinking about loss too much can make you sad. For me, it has taught me gratitude. I wake up each day knowing my parents are still here, and I see that as a gift. It’s not a gift that will last forever, which is why it matters so much.

I don’t know what the future holds for my mom’s heart or my dad’s health. I don’t know how many years we have left together. But I know this: I will not waste the time we have.

When I was younger, my nightmares were filled with the moment of loss. Now, my waking life is focused on the moments of love. I am learning to meet my fear not with despair, but with devotion.

And so I carry on, holding them close, listening to their stories, laughing with them, caring for them in small ways. It may not erase the fear, but it transforms it into something that feels almost like hope—the hope that, in the end, love will be what I remember most.