She had no job, no legal address, and a student visa running out. What she had was a borrowed bicycle, a host father who believed in her, and the stubborn conviction that starting from zero was something she had done before.
A few hours after the blazer fell, Noel asked if I had eaten the food he cooked. When I said I had not, he set the table and called me to eat. We talked about his studies and my new status as a "floating" alien. He was willing to support all my plans. But first, I had to find a job — I needed to send money for my children.
I made a resume and he let me write his address and contact number on it. Then I prepared to visit my first host family — Mr. Wakamatsu, the retired Sony employee and former JICA member who had chosen me during the homestay program. Our communication had been regular since my first stay in their house. I would call them sometimes, send cards occasionally, and spend a night with them from time to time. I had joined two more homestay programs after theirs, but it was with them that I felt closest. I got used to calling Mr. Wakamatsu Otosan — the Japanese word for father — just like the way Japanese children address their own.
I told him and his wife about my plan to work and study. I asked Otosan if he could help me find a part-time job. He was not sure he could, but said we could try. We set a date to visit some of his old acquaintances. He made appointments, and we went from place to place. The first person was expecting us. They talked, and I understood a little of what they said. We went to another, then another. Finally, we reached a building with a large sign that read YMCA.
I was hired as an English coordinator — several times a week, several hours a day. The work was not as important as the title sounded, but it was a good place to start. My job was to prepare materials for teachers, set up classrooms before and after classes, and fold pamphlets in between. I would handle a class when a teacher was absent and stay at the office until the evening sessions ended, greeting students and teachers as they left. The commute was about twenty minutes by bicycle from Noel's place. He let me use the one he had prepared for his wife.
Once I settled into the YMCA, I applied as a teacher at an English conversation school. I left a resume with the staff and was contacted — through Noel's cellphone — for an interview. My YMCA connection proved useful. I was hired to teach young children several hours a week. But because I still had free time, I landed a third, higher-paying assignment at a bigger school. For this one, I had to travel by train to reach their branch, and once a week, I went to a large company to teach their employees Business English.
With three jobs, I was able to repay Noel for the money he had lent me to cover the credit card bill from my one-way ticket. I could also support my family's growing needs. Aside from my children and parents, I was providing for Junjun, who was still in college, and for my youngest brother Ryan, who had entered an engineering program on my advice.
I could not get a working visa with my part-time status, so I had to work hard to convince one of my employers to hire me permanently. There was no teaching job to return to in the Philippines — a few months after I came back to Japan, my school staff in Manila had called to say that the principal was about to retire. To clear her records, they needed my return date or my resignation. Because I was told it would be simpler if I resigned, I did — in consideration of the trouble I had caused by leaving for my own interest.This resignation closes the door on her old career in Manila. From now on, Japan is not a detour — it is the only path.
Noel and I had already discussed my plan to try enrolling in the graduate course at his department. He recommended a professor he thought right for me, and I had started working on a research proposal. We would go to the computer center in the law department building to type and print my paper. The units were exclusively for law students, each requiring a password, so Noel would log in on one, step out, and leave it to me. During one of those visits, I was at the elevator when a man with rosy cheeks, narrow eyes, and long hair got in from another floor. I bowed and greeted him politely. Noel had once described the Law Department Dean's appearance to me, and I knew it was him. I worried he would notice I was an outsider — but hoped he would recognize me in his class if I passed.This chance encounter in the elevator plants a seed. The Dean will become a pivotal figure in later chapters.
To apply, I needed a cellphone. I had given Noel's number to my workplaces, but I could not use it for the university. I asked Otosan to accompany me to a shop near his place. We walked in and told the staff our purpose. But I heard Otosan say softly in Japanese, "Please make sure I will have nothing to do with it." The staff asked for identification — I showed my passport, then my Alien Card. He checked the entries and noticed my last registered address was in Akita. When I said I was now in Sendai, he told me I had to register my new address first.
It was the problem I had hoped to avoid by bringing a guarantor. Otosan and I left, and I immediately headed home. He and his wife had once asked where I was staying. I could not tell them the truth, so I said I was sharing an apartment with a student from the Philippines. I might have lied to him again.
When I told Noel what happened, he surprised me. Without my even asking, he said I could register his apartment as my address. How could he be so kind? I wondered if he realized the possible consequences — what would happen if they found out I was supposed to be in the Philippines but was instead living in Japan with a man who was not my husband? But I had to try.
At city hall, the staff checked my Alien Card, gave me a form, and I filled it in — including Noel's address — and stamped it with my personal seal. After several minutes, my card was returned with his apartment address printed on the back. That was it.
Within an hour of returning to the shop with Otosan, I was holding my new cellphone. I gave him my number and called Noel as soon as I got the chance.
There is a saying: "When it rains, it pours." Otosan called with news. His grandchildren had been studying English at a conversation school near the station where he always picked me up. One of the teachers had quit, and the owner was looking for a replacement.
The school building was cute — painted yellow outside, with a small parking area on the left. The first-floor classroom had glass windows, and the second floor could hold two classes at once. The owners were a mother and daughter. They needed a substitute immediately, but I could not take every class because of my other jobs. I rearranged my schedules and managed to teach there all day on Wednesdays — kindergarten and preparatory children in the morning, older kids in the afternoon, adult students in the evening.
The other teacher was an American man — tall, a little heavy, friendly, and clearly delighted by the children. We taught kids alternately and split the adult classes in the evening: he handled the intermediate level, and I took the beginners. I got closer to the assistant staff, whose job was to prepare lesson materials. She had been there a long time but was planning to leave. Until they found her replacement, I was there to cheer her up.
The school owners knew my student visa was expiring within months. I told them about my plan to take the university examination, hoping I could pass and extend it. But they had kindly thought about my situation and came up with their own solution. They said they would supply the necessary documents for me to get a working visa. And true to their word, I received my working visa — valid for three years as a Specialist in Humanities/International Services — seventy days before my student visa's expiration.
The professor Noel recommended was willing to be my adviser if I could pass the entrance examination. His English was outstanding, and he found my profile impressive. He asked me to write a book summary about democracy, and I delivered it shortly after. I was allowed to fill out the application. With everything set, I had to prepare for both the written and oral parts. I would sometimes bring a book to work and read between classes.
I had developed a genuine hunger for the subject. The more I read the books Noel brought home, the more I realized how ignorant I had been. Law was not just about courtrooms and cases — it was about the structures that hold communities together, the ones that fail them, and the ones that could be rebuilt. I wanted to understand all of it.
But I had to move out of Noel's apartment. He would travel to his country and return with his wife after their honeymoon. I had already returned the bicycle intended for her and was using one he had fixed for me. Finding abandoned bicycles and still-working appliances was not difficult in Japan — you only needed to know the schedule for putting out bulky refuse. That was how I furnished my new place.
When we could not find anything affordable nearby, I went to the International Community Center near the university. On its bulletin board — the same one where I had once seen notices as a language student — was an ad from a Chinese woman looking for a roommate. The monthly rent was low, so I called and went to see it. It was an old house with two rooms, a furnished kitchen, and a bathroom. The available room overlooked a vacant lot thick with bushes. It was about half the size of my room at the International House, but the owners — an old couple — asked for no advance payment or deposit. Electricity, kitchen, and bathroom were included. The only rule: no men allowed inside.
I registered my new address at city hall. My official residence was now in a place called ura no heya — which translates to "the room in the back."
With just our bicycles, Noel and I transferred my belongings and the things he had helped me pick up from the street. As a farewell gift, he gave me his nine-centimeter-thick dictionary. I put it on the study table with my books. I placed a small table in the center and a short chair beside it — so low I could stretch my legs on the floor. A small television went in the corner below the window. I put my clothes in the small cabinet and set the large one as my bed. A flowery carpet on the floor gave the room a brighter look. There was very little space left to move, but I would not need more if I was only there to study and sleep. I would only notice how small it was when the old couple visited — the old man would come in to watch television with me, saying nothing much, but seeming to like it there.
I knew the recycle shops in the city where I could buy clothes for almost nothing. I had confidence wearing anything with my slim body, and I was already an expert at not taking my troubles home to work. But there were times I could not hide my circumstances. The assistant teacher at Bob's World invited me out one day, and since I had been to her apartment, I could not refuse when she offered to drive me home. She was surprised to see my room and laughed at my sleeping cabinet — but said she was amazed at how I projected such a positive image despite my humble living conditions. I wished I could tell her the whole story.
I kept myself busy to avoid thinking about what Noel was doing with his new wife — or how we used to spend time together. Every piece of furniture in my room reminded me of him. I would lose myself in his memory while checking a word in the dictionary he had given me.
Then one day, I thought of going back to his apartment. I wanted to see how he had prepared the place for her. I still had the key, so if he had not changed the lock, I could get in.
I rode the bicycle he gave me and walked it when I got closer, checking every face on the street. I entered the narrow alley to his unit and parked beside his wife's bicycle. When I saw no one around, I took the key from my pocket, inserted it in the lock, and it fit. I opened the door quickly and stepped inside, my knees trembling.
I was greeted by a refreshing smell of flowers. It was very clean. Careful not to touch anything, I went further in. The furniture was in the same position, but he had changed the curtains and the carpet in the living room — where we used to spend our sweetest moments together. I realized there was no trace of my presence at all. Not even a strand of hair.
"I don't belong here anymore," I thought. "I should not be here."
I did not look at the other corners. I went out, locked the door, and pushed my bicycle to the main road. I rode away as fast as I could until I was too tired to continue. I stopped and cried. I was hurt — but I was not sure why. I should not have been, because I had known from the beginning that this was coming. There was nobody to talk to about my feelings, so I just cried it out. I only stopped when I heard myself. I did not like the sound I was making.
I did not ride the bicycle again. I walked it home. I cried once more in the shower but became less emotional in the hot bath. I realized that Noel had done what was right. I decided to try to be happy for him with his new life. It was the least I could do in return for nearly two years of kindness. I felt sorry for his wife, who had been unknowingly cheated because of me. I imagined her face from the photo and tried to apologize — as if she could hear me.
She arrived with nothing but a credit card debt and a name on someone else's address. Within months, she had three jobs, a working visa, and a room so small she slept in a cabinet. None of it was glamorous. None of it was supposed to last. But every piece she gathered — the YMCA title, the yellow school, the cellphone, the dictionary, the flowery carpet — was placed with the same precision her father once demanded when she cleaned the house as a child: not good enough until it was done right. And when she rode away from Noel's apartment in tears, she was not just grieving a relationship. She was closing a chapter she had written with someone else's pen — and beginning, for the first time, to write in her own.