Kevin deactivated Facebook.
From that day on, he only drank 3-in-1 coffee at home — terrified of Starbucks logos and pink hangers. 😅☕
Kevin barely remembered how he left Starbucks.
His ear was burning, his collar was crooked, and dozens of eyes followed him — laughing, mocking, pitying.
The glass door shut behind them.
BAM.
The laughter echoed.
Outside, Aling Baby let go of him, breathing heavily. Her anger had cooled, but disappointment filled her eyes.
“Go home,” she said.
Kevin walked behind her like a child caught stealing from a piggy bank.
On the way home, neither spoke.
Back at their small house behind the sari-sari store, Aling Baby threw the hanger onto the table.
“Sit.”
Kevin obeyed.
“I know I was wrong,” he whispered.
She looked at him.
“You weren’t just wrong,” she said.
“You forgot who you are.”
She told him everything.
How she opened the store at 5 a.m.
How his father drove a tricycle all day.
How that ₱500 was meant to buy rice for three days.
“You want to be rich?” she said.
“That’s fine. But don’t be a liar.”
Kevin nodded, tears falling silently.
THE NEXT MORNING: WAKING UP IN A NIGHTMARE
Kevin woke up to nonstop phone notifications.
Messenger.
Facebook.
TikTok.
Instagram.
He opened Facebook.
🎥 “FAKE RICH KID CAUGHT AT STARBUCKS!”
The video was clear.
His mother’s voice.
The hanger.
His words: “She’s my yaya.”
1.2 million views.
45,000 shares.
Comments flooded in.
“DESERVED!”
“Money is just paper — rice is life!”
“Pink hanger for justice!”
Hashtags trended:
#HangerNiMommy
#FakeRichKid
#RiceBeforeStarbucks
Kevin shut his phone and buried his face in his pillow.
“I’m not going out anymore,” he said.
“Running won’t fix anything,” his mother replied.
TRISHA
Trisha watched the video again.
This time, she saw everything clearly.
The lies.
The bragging.
And the sentence that broke her heart:
“She’s my yaya. I don’t know her.”
Kevin messaged her:
“I’m sorry. I can explain.”
She replied:
“I’m not angry because you’re poor.”
“I’m hurt because you were ashamed of your mother.”
Silence followed.
And it hurt more than insults.
THE PRICE OF A FAKE LIFE
Kevin disappeared from social media.
Neighbors teased him.
“Rich kid!”
“Got a condo yet?”
“Where’s your hanger?”
For the first time, Kevin felt ashamed — not of being poor, but of being fake.
He started helping in the store.
One customer said, “You’re famous now.”
Kevin smiled weakly.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Dreaming isn’t wrong,” she said.
“Lying is.”
A SMALL CHANGE
Kevin created a new Facebook account.
He posted:
“I’m the guy from the Starbucks video.”
“No, I’m not rich.”
“But I have an honest mother.”
“And I was wrong to be ashamed of her.”
“I’m sorry.”
It didn’t go viral.
But the comments were different.
“At least you learned.”
“Hug your mom.”
“You’re richer than you think.”
For the first time, Kevin stopped pretending.