Balikbayan follows Alvin, a Filipino-American immigrant, who returns to the Philippines after the loss of his mother to learn more about his birthplace and to find his estranged father. During his trip, he meets a sharp boarding house lady, a lonely 8-year old boy, and a handsome nurse, who show him what it means to be “home.”

"Do you guys want to get on the slide?" Tito Erwin asked, looming over us at the edge of the pool.

"But it's too deep over there, dad," my cousin Earl answered him.

"I know. I'll be over there to catch you guys," he said, pointing towards the deep end of the bigger pool where the slide shot you out.

My mom had opened up my uncle’s Facebook page and I started tapping through his photos. After a few minutes, I noticed the name on his account and couldn’t help but smile. “Rainbow Reyes” was at the very top of his page and despite never having met him, this small change to his profile name gave me everything I needed to know about him.

I was sitting in the dining room fiddling with my camera's viewfinder, wondering if I should start packing it when Sally walks into the room to help bring our bags to the car.

"Sally, can I get a picture of us before we go?" I asked quickly. She looked startled for a second before she nodded.

"Hold on," she answered before walking out the backdoor.

This woman was wearing stockings. She pulled a small suitcase behind her, stood on the driveway, looked up at the tree, and smiled at us. She stood there for a few moments— expectantly. I gave my brother a confused look, which he returned with a quick shrug. The woman’s smile faltered and she walked into the house.

Who is she? I asked myself quickly.

Countless possibilities ran through my mind, but one answer kept popping up again and again. She must be one of those vacuum ladies.

“Hurry back!” someone yelled from across the pool. I glared at him through my goggles hoping that he could see my resentment. At the ripe age of seven, I was convinced my swimming instructor was trying to kill me.

Years of pop culture consumption told me that the whole evening was supposed to end with a perfect kiss, but my life wasn’t a John Hughes film. It wasn’t even a Gary Marshall film. This coming-of-age trope never showed up in the movie of my life.

A friend once asked me in college what I was doing for summer break. “I’m going home,” I answered, referring to my mom’s house in Maryland, but for some reason, it felt foreign on my lips.