It was always a random day when I heard the delivery truck sputtering as it squeezed into our cul-de-sac. The box wasn’t just any other brown paper package taped all around — it came from America. It traveled far just to get to my island, trapping the zeitgeist of its starting point and the unmistakable scent of America (“amoy tate”).

Someone had to be home 24/7 during the two-week arrival window so we didn’t miss the delivery. That wasn’t much of an issue since my lola was always home. The problem was that I also wanted to be there when the box came.

I wanted to be the first one to tear the brown tape and inhale that American air, because even for a brief moment, I would be sharing the same air with my mother. These packages — balikbayan boxes — were the only tangible connection between us.

We have a complicated relationship. My parents separated when I was born, and a year later, my mom left for the U.S. to find work as a nurse in order to give me the best possible future. She was a single parent. I was left in the care of my lola and tita, my mom’s younger sibling. They became my parental stand-ins. Looking back now, this was a snapshot of the destruction of the Filipino family. My situation was not special; it was one of many.

My mom was one of the thousands of Filipino nurses who came to the U.S. during the 1980s. With that came the influx of balikbayan boxes back into the Philippines, full of American treasures like candy, canned foods and toiletries. These boxes were a new addition to our ever-evolving cultural norms, a modern take on the pasalubong, a gift you bring back to family and friends from travels.

In the Philippines, brain drain was a real thing: There was no decent work to be had, even in the big city of Manila. Anyone with a college education would leave for the greener pastures of first world countries as nurses or other white-collar professionals; those less fortunate found work as domestic workers for rich families in the Middle East and Asia.

This was not new. We’ve been exporting our human resources, whether by choice or not, since we were colonized in 1521 by Spain. These circumstances, coupled with a need to provide a fighting chance of a better life, became the breeding ground for a colonial mentality: Anything from Western countries is better than what we have.

After I came to America, I saw the stacks of ready-to-be-sent balikbayan boxes in my mom’s tiny apartment, lined up like bricks, teetering dangerously, almost saying, “please send me or I can send myself.” I’ve seen my mom comb through the clearance aisles of Target, CVS and Walgreens, buying anything that was marked down three times. I learned to be thrifty because of her, but that’s not the point here.

The point is that all those material things held so much value to me, my whole family, hell, even the whole baranggay (neighborhood). But maybe they were not that valuable after all.

It was not my choice to come to America. I was uprooted. In my mom’s eyes, there is still no future in the Philippines, so when I completed my degree (in psychology, not the recommended medicine or law), she brought me here. I struggled to assimilate, get a job, find a support system. I missed my home, my life and my lola. I would buy the 99-cent scratch phone cards, just talk to her for five minutes. In those conversations, I would just cry. I really wanted to go home, but financially I was unable to. It took a car crash, another degree, multiple career changes, failed relationships and a span of 15 years for me to settle into a life.

I am now part of the brain drain, living and working in the U.S., though the obligation to send balikbayan boxes back home was not passed on to me. As magical as it was for me back then, looking back and mentally unpacking these boxes has me unpacking my own colonial mentality. We were all told to buy into the American Dream. Life is going to be better, they said, but they didn’t tell you what you needed to give up to pursue this.

I missed my own lola’s funeral. That was my price. I had just moved to New York and couldn’t borrow money, even from my own mother. She said I needed to learn my lesson. If I had just been a nurse or a doctor, I wouldn’t be in this position. Tough love.

The term “balikbayan” is quite ironic. It means “return to home.” I see the tough decision my mom made 36 years ago. I’ve heard her stories of how hard it was to leave me. I get the bigger picture now that I am here in those greener pastures. I am very grateful for the opportunity given to me. I’ve seen so many of my peers struggle and do what my mom did decades ago.

But is our quality of life any better? Is our relationship any better? Family was traded for dollars. Balikbayan boxes for the actual person. I don’t have the answers, nor am I in any position to dictate how others should keep in touch with their family. But in my experience, being present is better than the hollow shell of a person pieced together by the contents of a box.

My mom still sends boxes home. Habit, I suppose. I’ve wondered if she ever thought I could feel her love through the clothes that once grazed her skin and were now hugging mine. Nothing in the box could ever replace the physical presence of my mother that I sorely longed for. Not the clearance chocolates, not the dollar Spam, not the bars of Irish Spring. I’d rather do without any of those, just to see her face, even for just that short window of delivery time.

Yana Gilbuena is a chef and writer. Twitter: @SALOseries. Email: food@sfchronicle.com