I didn’t realize I was growing up the day I stopped fighting for chicken skin.

“Crispylicious, juicylicious, much-malaki, much-masarap.”

Those fast-food taglines weren’t just catchy lines to me; they were like a promise. A promise that somewhere on my plate, there would be chicken skin waiting, golden and crispy, and meant just for me—only me.

As a child, I treated chicken skin like treasure. I would carefully hide it under my rice, protecting it from curious eyes and quick hands. No one was allowed to ask for it. And if they did, I would glare and say, “This is mine, akin lang ‘to.” I always saved it for last, the best reward after finishing everything else. Call it greedy, but to me, it felt earned.

Chicken skin was never just a food to me. It was my comfort. Every time I received an award or achieved something, my mom or my aunt would take me out to eat. Jollibee became our place of celebration, and chicken skin became my reward. Over time, they learned how much I loved it, to the point I didn’t even have to ask anymore. They would give me theirs without a second thought, and in those quiet moments, I felt understood in a way words didn’t need to explain.

I remember one time when my aunt secretly took the chicken skin I had hidden under my rice. She must have known exactly where to find it. When I finally finished eating and reached for it, it was gone. I felt betrayed, and you could say that this was my first-ever heartbreak—I cried the whole day and refused to eat. It felt like something important had been taken from me. It sounds funny now, but back then, it mattered that much.

But everything started to change when my younger siblings came into my life. One night, while we were eating together, I noticed how they were looking at my plate more than their own. Their hands were already messy from rice and oil, and there was still a bit of grease on their chins, like they had finished eating in a hurry. Then, so simply and innocently, they looked at me, smiling and asked:

“Kuya, can I have your chicken skin?”

I froze.

It was such a small question, but why does it feel like something bigger was being asked of me?

Part of me didn’t want to give it. Growing up, it had always been understood that the chicken skin was mine. No one questioned it. No one touched it. It was an unspoken rule everyone respected. But as I looked at them smiling, I saw something familiar.

I saw myself—the same child who used to ask, hoping someone would say yes.

And for the first time, keeping it felt heavier than giving it away.

So I gave it.

That moment felt strange. If I were to be honest, I hesitated, but eventually, I gave it to them. And then it happened again. And again. Slowly, it became easier, not because I stopped loving chicken skin, but because I started loving something else more.

Somewhere between holding on and letting go, I became someone who no longer needed to be given to—I became someone who could give.

And maybe this is something many of us experience without even realizing it. Growing up, especially as the older sibling, often means stepping into a quiet role of giving—of choosing others, even in small things. It’s not always grand or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s as simple as giving up the last piece of something you love.

There was a different kind of fulfillment in seeing them happy, in knowing I could give something I once held so tightly. And in those moments, I began to understand something I never noticed before, that this must be how my mother felt when she gave and sacrificed her treasures just for me.

Maybe growing up doesn’t happen all at once. Maybe it happened quietly, right there at the table, in the moment I chose to give something I once couldn’t let go of.

Maybe this is what being a kuya really means—not just being older, but learning how to give, even when it’s hard.

I used to be the one who fought for the chicken skin. Now, I watch my siblings do the same, protecting what they treasure just like I once did.

And in them, I see who I used to be.

In the smallest piece of chicken, I found the biggest sign that I was no longer a child.

Growing up doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it just quietly happens over dinner.

I lost my favorite piece of the meal, but I found something far greater than it—my place at the table, and the person I became because of it.

The Frontman