The elderly gentleman led me to one of the small rooms in the middle. He took his seat and motioned for me to sit across from him. A glass barrier separated us.

Today’s appointment was for the 受付—the formal acceptance and review of my naturalization application.

I placed my bag on the empty chair beside me and took out my documents. I had prepared two thick folders—one containing the original documents and another containing the photocopies—along with extra photos and a pouch holding my passport.

The first thing I handed him was the list of requirements they had asked me to complete. He smiled and said it was okay because he already had a copy. I thought perhaps he wanted the instruction booklet about naturalization instead, but he told me he didn’t need that either.

In front of him was a checklist.

He began asking for the documents one by one according to the numbers on the list. Each time, I handed him the original first, followed by the photocopy. The order wasn’t exactly the same as the checklist, but thankfully I had prepared well.

Before coming, I had attached small numbered page markers to every document. That turned out to be one of the best decisions I made. Whenever he asked for Document No. 1, No. 20, or even No. 50, I could find it immediately without searching through the thick stack of papers.

It took us more than an hour to sort through everything. There were so many documents.

Just as we were almost finished, another lady came into the room. She glanced at our progress, and I had the feeling she was silently telling the gentleman to speed things up because we still had one more thing to do.

The thing I had been dreading.

The thing that had made me cry last year.

The written test.

After we finished reviewing all of the documents, the gentleman excused himself. A younger lady, wearing a mask and neatly manicured gel nails, took his place across from me.

She immediately began reviewing my application form and pointed out several mistakes.

Some of them made me wonder what on earth I had been thinking.

For example, I had accidentally written my birthplace in the space where I was supposed to write my nationality. She asked me to correct it by writing フィリピン. At first, I even started writing ピ before realizing it should begin with フ.

Looking at my application form, I couldn’t help but laugh inside. It was full of corrections.

This young lady had an incredible eye for detail. She caught every little mistake.

But I didn’t take it personally.

Before coming here, I had already prepared myself mentally. I kept reminding myself that the people working in this office were like robots—not in a bad way, but because they had a job to do. Their responsibility was to check every document carefully for accuracy and completeness.

Nothing personal.

They were simply doing their job.

She worked quickly and explained each correction as we went. Then she placed three sheets of paper in front of me.

She asked me to write the date and my name first.

After that, she smiled politely and said,

“Let’s begin.”

She pressed the timer.

Twenty minutes.

As she arranged the test papers before starting the timer, I quietly made the sign of the cross.

I was really praying.

This was the make-or-break moment that had haunted me for an entire year.