Lourdes never imagined that the sound she would miss most from home was the clatter of her mother’s plates.
Back in Iloilo, their kitchen had always been noisy metal spoons against ceramic bowls, her father coughing as he read the newspaper, her younger siblings arguing over who would wash the dishes. It was a small house, but it echoed with life.
Now, the only clatter she heard every day came from the restaurant kitchen in Dubai, where she worked twelve-hour shifts as a waitress.
When she first arrived in the United Arab Emirates. The city lights amazed her. Skyscrapers glittered like jewels in the desert night. Everything looked expensive, polished, fast. She felt small stepping into the airport, clutching her documents and whispering a prayer under her breath.
“Para sa pamilya,” she reminded herself. For the family.
Her father’s fishing boat had been damaged in a storm. Repairs cost more than they could afford. Her sister was about to enter college. Lourdes, the eldest, felt the responsibility settle on her shoulders without anyone saying it out loud.
The Italian restaurant that hired her was located inside a busy mall. It smelled of garlic, basil, and freshly baked bread. Soft music played in the background while customers chatted over pasta and pizza.
On her first day, she nearly dropped a tray of drinks.
“Relax your hands,” advised Fatima, a Moroccan senior waitress. “The tray can feel your fear.”
Lourdes laughed nervously. “I think it already knows.”
The pace was relentless. Orders flashed on screens. Customers waved for attention. Children spilled juice. Couples asked for recommendations.
“Water for table five.”
“Extra cheese for table nine.”
“Bill, please.”
She learned to move quickly but gracefully, weaving between tables like a dancer avoiding collisions. Her smile became second nature, even when her feet throbbed inside tight black shoes.
At the end of her shift, she would peel off her uniform in the cramped staff locker room and check her phone.
There would always be a message from home.
Anak, we fixed part of the boat.
Ate, I passed my entrance exam!
We miss you.
Those messages were both medicine and ache.
In the apartment she shared with four other Filipinas, Lourdes slept on the top bunk near the window. From there, she could see a slice of the city skyline. Sometimes she imagined each building was a different dream someone had left home for.
One busy Friday evening, a family of five entered the restaurant just before closing. The parents looked tired. The children were restless.
“Good evening,” Lourdes greeted warmly.
“Welcome.”
The youngest child, a little girl with curly hair, hid behind her mother’s dress.
Throughout the meal, Lourdes brought extra napkins, refilled drinks before they were empty, and suggested a dessert the children might enjoy.
When the bill came, the mother smiled softly. “Thank you for your patience. It’s been a long day.”
“I understand,” Lourdes replied gently.
As they left, the little girl ran back and handed Lourdes a small folded paper.
“For you,” she whispered shyly.
After her shift, Lourdes opened it.
It was a crayon drawing of a stick figure wearing an apron, smiling widely, with the words: Thank you Ate.
Her throat tightened. Ate. Older sister.
Even here, thousands of miles from home, she was still someone’s Ate.
Not every night was sweet.
There were customers who clicked their fingers impatiently. Some complained loudly about minor mistakes. Once, a man scolded her for bringing the wrong sauce, even though he had ordered it.
“Listen properly next time,” he snapped.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied calmly, though her hands trembled.
In the kitchen, she allowed herself a deep breath before returning to the dining area. Pride had to be swallowed sometimes. That was part of being an OFW.
One evening, while polishing glasses, she overheard two diners talking.
“These workers come here for money,” one said casually. “They don’t really care.”
Lourdes paused for a second.
If only they knew, she thought.
They didn’t see the remittance forms filled out every month. They didn’t see the midnight tears after video calls. They didn’t see the birthdays celebrated through screens.
Caring was the reason she was there.
Months turned into a year.
Her father’s boat was fully repaired. Photos arrived showing him back at sea, grinning widely. Her sister started college, proudly wearing her school uniform in selfies sent st dawn.
“You did this, Ate,” her sister would say.
Lourdes would shake her head at the screen. “No. We did.”
During Ramadan, the mall stayed open late. The restaurant filled quickly after sunset. Lourdes moved almost without thinking taking orders, delivering plates, clearing tables. The smell of tomato sauce mixed with roasted meat and warm bread.
One particularly exhausting night, she noticed an elderly man dining alone. He ate slowly, staring at nothing in particular.
When she approached to clear his plate, he looked up.
“You are from the Philippines?” He asked kindly.
“Yes, sir.”
“I worked there once,” he said. “Many years ago. Good people.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It is not easy, being far from home.”
Her smile faltered slightly, but she kept her composure. “No, sir. But we manage.”
Before leaving, he left a generous tip and a simple note: Your hard work is seen.
Lourdes folded the note carefully and tucked it into her wallet.
On her second year abroad, she began saving for something new not just repairs or tuition, but a small cafe she dreamed of opening back home. A place near the sea, where fishermen could drink coffee at sunrise. Where families could gather. Where she could serve not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
She started writing ideas in a small notebook during breaks. Menu concepts. Interior designs. Names.
“Why are you smiling?” Fatima teased one afternoon.
“Because I have a plan,” Lourdes replied.
One quiet night after closing, Lourdes stood alone in the dining area. The chairs were stacked. The lights dimmed. The smell of baked bread still lingered faintly.
She thought about the thousands of plates she had carried. The countless glasses she had filled. The endless smiles she had given.
Being a waitress was not glamorous. It was tiring, often invisible work. But it had built something solid her family’s stability, her sister’s education, her father’s livelihood.
It had also built her.
She was stronger now. More patient. More confident. She could balance heavy trays and heavier emotions. She could endure homesickness and still greet strangers with warmth.
When her contract renewal came up, she signed it for one more year.
Not because she had to.
But because she was closer to her dream.
That night, she video-called her family.
“Soon,” she told them, “we’ll drink coffee together every morning.”
Her father laughed. “And you’ll be the boss?”
“Yes,” she grinned. “But I’ll still serve.”
As she lay in her bunk later, staring at the slice of Dubai skyline outside her window, Lourdes felt a quiet pride.
She might be a waitress in a foreign land, carrying plates between tables.
But every step she took was carrying her closer to home.
