"It's been a while, darling. I missed you both dearly," the familiar voice uttered. 

The man that owned the voice, 

the man who explicitly abandoned us for an insane duration of time. 

The man who we thought had died somewhere. 

The man who thought that a postcard was better than his presence.

.

.

.

And I just snapped.

"A...while? A while?!" 

I heard myself shout, 

"You've gone off to 'God knows where' for the past 9 months, Dad!" 

And with that, 

the impending volcano inside me had just erupted. 

I didn't know what had come over me that morning. 

Was it because of the lack of sleep? 

No, it couldn't have been. I slept in the limousine the whole trip. 

Was it because of the anxiety of overthinking why we...

just a small non-elitist family

...are being treated with utmost quality service? 

Possibly. 

Or was it because of the mere fact that he, 

the person who you'd never expect to ever do such a thing, 

had abandoned us for the past couple of months? 

.

.

.

Yes, quite evidently so. 

I guess, what I'm trying to say is, 

...

"We missed you, dad. I missed you. Mom missed you dearly. Where the hell have you been?"

With those words, and a lot more, while Mom was trying to pull me back before I even went close to Dad and beat the living hell out of him, 

I passed out due to exhaustion.

Was all those words necessary? 

Did I go too far? 

I mean, the other option would've been to forget all the mean things he intentionally or unintentionally did to the family. 

I could've just greeted him and returned the gesture by hugging him to express just how much...

 I missed him.

No...

He deserved it. 

He definitely did. 

I needed closure, at least if it's for just that moment. He needed to know just how messed up he made us feel. So, did he really deserve every last word of hatred that went out of my mouth? 

Well, I can't really point to an absolute answer right now. 

One thing's for sure, the deed is already done, 

.

.

.

and there's no turning back.

I woke up sitting in the back of a Black Sedan. 

"Huh? Wh—," I was still a little woozy from the exhaustion. I rubbed my eyes, since my eyes were still a little blurry. I was trying to get a clearer vision when Mom, who was sitting in the passenger seat, handed me a bottle of water. As I drank it, I looked at the person sitting in the driver's seat.

"Dad...?" I asked the driver, who I presumed to be my father. "No, not your dad, kid," said the man. 

Kid? 

I'm technically an adult, moron. 

I shrug it off. 

"Mom, who's he? Where's Dad?" I asked Mom. She just struck me with a look of worry, "Well, Stevie, your father has more business to attend to." 

Typical. 

I should have known. 

Mom, why do you always take his side, 

after everything he has done to us?

"Your father is safe, kid. Rest assured. All you need to worry about is warming up to the lifestyle here in the US of A," the driver told me. 

We're already here, huh? Well, figures. 

"Wait, what about our old furniture that was still in the Philippines?" I had to ask, suddenly remembering the dilemma around it. "All taken care of, no need to stress yourself on these things, you just take care of yourself, kid. Enjoy your childhood a little," the man tells me seriously while driving. 

Okay, this whole 'kid' thing is starting to piss me off. Do I really look that young? Well I mean, probably, because I'm half-Asian, but calling me a kid is a bit of a stretch, isn't it? Am I overthinking this too much? I sigh.

"Why so glum, tiger?" 

Mom reaches for my cheek and holds it. "I'm fine, Mom. Thank you for worrying," I replied in return. "You know you can tell your mother everything, sweetie," she smiles in her gentle and motherly way. "I know, Mom," I held her hand and pressed my cheek upon it more. "No matter how old you get, you'll always be my baby boy." I smile back in return.

We arrived in front of a house. It's a pretty standard house, like what you typically see on the television or on media online. It looked quite new, almost as if it had just been built for us. My mom and I got out of the car with our carry-on luggage to get a better view of our home, and as we did, the man suddenly rolled his window down and struck us with an unusual piece of advice, 

"That reminds me, Mrs. Vincenzo. Remember to not mention your last name in this neighborhood, much more in the entire city of Haggrew, got that? This goes for you too, Steven," the driver tells us.

Wait, why do we have to hide our true identities? Mom seemed pretty calm about it, compliant even, but I have to ask. 

"Why do we have to do that?" I asked the driver persistently. He visibly sighed, looking rather annoyed. 

After a short pause, he finally answered my question, though short, "It's a long story, kid. But to summarize, your surname is pretty infamous here. Just be careful, you could really attract some bad company."

I understood the gist of his explanation, but I guess I just have to find the long story myself. Though I cannot deny, it made me even more curious about everything. A couple of questions started circling my mind. 

What's with our family name? 

Was it my ancestor of some sorts? 

What did they do? 

All these questions, yet no definite answers.

The Sedan drives off. A moving truck comes almost immediately, replacing the presence of the previous car entirely.

A brand new lifestyle, 

in a brand new house, 

in a brand new country. 

What more should we expect

.

.

.

other than the peeping neighbor next door? 

What's his deal?