Some families spend the holidays counting blessings; others count the miles that keep them apart. For those who grew up with an OFW in the family, December carries both warmth and quiet ache.
By Marth Mora
I used to think Christmas was supposed to mean together. A house full of noise, gifts under the tree, every seat filled. But in our home, one chair always stayed empty. My grandfather worked in Saudi Arabia as a pipeline engineer supervisor, spending most holidays in the desert heat while we were here in the Philippines.
He would call us through a grainy Skype screen, our laughter lagging behind the connection. We would wave at the camera while he rubbed his tired eyes, saying he had just gotten off work. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t come home, only that it felt unfair, that while the world celebrated, ours was always missing one person.
Growing up, that absence became normal. My cousins and I would open our gifts while my father set up Skype on those bulky early 2000’s family computer so he could “join” us virtually. There was something both comforting and heartbreaking about it, a family photo with a face trapped behind pixels.He would promise, “Next year, I’ll be home for Christmas.”
But next year rarely came in December. He would arrive around March instead, during our summer vacation. By then, the parols were long packed away, and the tree was collecting dust in storage.
Still, we would rush to greet him at the airport, his luggage heavy with dates and toys, his skin darker from the desert sun. The joy of reunion was always mixed with the knowledge that it wouldn’t last, because soon he would be gone again.
As a kid, I thought working abroad meant success. Adults said words like “sacrifice” and “opportunity,” but no one talked about the quiet loneliness that came with them. I saw it in my grandmother’s eyes when the calls ended. Maybe that is why, when everyone in my family pushed me to become an engineer too, I resisted. I had seen what that life demanded. I didn’t want to measure my worth in the hours spent far from home.
And every year, when the cold months returned, I would feel it again, the distance, the silence, the empty seat. I didn’t have the words then, but now I understand it as the quiet ache of missing someone you love. That feeling that grows stronger when nights are long and the festive lights shine without the ones you hope to see.
For many OFW families, December is a bittersweet season. The world glows with lights and carols, but somewhere in the background there is a quiet grief, one that comes from missing people who left so you could live better. It is a love story written in separation.
Now that I am older, I see my grandfather’s sacrifice differently. He wasn’t just chasing a paycheck; he was trying to give his family a life he could only watch from afar. I think of him whenever I see an OFW video call in the background of a Christmas dinner, or a child waving to a screen instead of an embrace.
The holidays will never feel entirely whole, but maybe that is alright. Because love doesn’t disappear with distance, it stretches, endures, and waits.
Some nights, when the air feels colder than usual, I imagine my grandfather under that same sky years ago, tired, lonely, but hopeful. Maybe that is what love really is, the quiet courage to stay apart while believing that one day, the waiting will end.
The truest warmth does not come from lights or gifts, but from the love that keeps a family connected, even when oceans stand between them.
“We learned to celebrate around an empty chair, pretending the distance didn’t echo louder than the laughter.”
