The judge raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean, Mang Kiko?”
The old farmer took a deep breath before answering. His face showed fear, yet his voice remained steady.
“Your Honor, I am a poor man. I don’t own a scale like his,” he said, pointing to Don Gusting.
“All I have is an old balance scale — the kind with two plates that must be equal.”
The people began to murmur.
“Then how do you make sure the butter is one kilo?” the judge asked, leaning forward.
Slowly, Mang Kiko looked at Don Gusting.
For a moment, their eyes met.
“What I do is simple, Your Honor,” he said.
“Every day, before I deliver the butter, I first buy bread from Don Gusting’s bakery.”
The judge frowned.
“Bread?”
“Yes,” Mang Kiko nodded.
“The one he calls the ‘Special 1-Kilo Loaf Bread.’”
The entire courtroom fell silent.
It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
“When I get home,” Mang Kiko continued,
“I place the bread on one plate of my scale.
Then I place the butter on the other — until they balance.”
Some people gasped.
Others slowly turned to look at Don Gusting.
Mang Kiko lifted his head.
“So if my butter is only 900 grams…”
he paused, then looked straight at the businessman.
“…then that means the ‘one kilo of bread’ Don Gusting sells me every day
is also only 900 grams.”
A loud reaction echoed through the courtroom.
Don Gusting went pale.
Sweat dripped from his forehead.
The digital scale he had proudly held earlier
now felt like a burden in his hands.
“Bailiff,” the judge commanded firmly,
“go buy bread from Don Gusting’s bakery right now.
We will weigh it here.”
Minutes passed like hours.
The bread was placed on the scale.
BEEP.
900 GRAMS.
The judge slammed the gavel.
BANG!
And in that moment, everything changed.
The judge stood, his gaze heavy as he looked at Don Gusting.
“The truth is now clear,” he said.
“The accused is not the farmer — but the complainant.”
The courtroom erupted.
Some laughed in shock, some applauded, others shook their heads in shame.
“For many years,” the judge continued,
“this town has been buying bread labeled as one kilo,
yet it was short by one hundred grams.”
Don Gusting’s hands trembled as he tried to speak.
“Your Honor… perhaps there was just a mistake in—”
“This is not a mistake,” the judge cut him off.
“This is systematic deception.”
He turned to Mang Kiko.
“Mang Kiko, you are innocent.
You broke no law.
You merely used the very standard of measurement
provided by the man who accused you.”
Mang Kiko bowed his head, tears in his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
The gavel struck again.
“Case dismissed against Mang Kiko.”
The judge then faced Don Gusting, his voice cold.
“But you, Don Gusting, will face charges of fraud, false measurement, and deception of the public.”
It was as if Don Gusting’s world collapsed.
His bakery — once a symbol of wealth and power —
had suddenly become a symbol of shame.
Outside the courtroom, the townspeople gathered around Mang Kiko.
“We’re sorry,” some said.
“We doubted you.”
The old man simply smiled.
“No anger in my heart,” he replied.
“The truth reveals itself when the time is right.”
Soon, the news spread.
People began weighing the bread they bought.
One bakery after another closed.
But at the foot of the mountain,
Mang Kiko continued making butter —
same weight, same honesty.
And on each plate of his old scale
rested a silent reminder:
👉 The measure you use on others
is the same measure that will be used on you.
👉 A person’s true weight
is not measured by scales,
but by conscience.
And that became the lesson the town of San Isidro would never forget.
Months after the trial, the face of San Isidro had changed.
Don Gusting’s bakery — once packed every morning — slowly lost its customers.
Even though he tried to explain that “the scale had been fixed,” it was too late.
Once trust is broken, it is hard to rebuild.
In the end, he was forced to sell the bakery and move away,
carrying a lesson heavier than any court punishment.
Meanwhile, Mang Kiko quietly returned to his old life.
At dawn, the sound of his slippers could still be heard
as he carried fresh milk down from the mountain.
He continued making butter — no more, no less.
His old two-plate scale remained beside him,
a reminder of the day he almost lost his honor,
but instead became an instrument of truth.
The townspeople’s view of Mang Kiko changed too.
He was no longer just a simple farmer,
but a symbol of honesty.
Whenever there was an argument about weight or price in the market,
someone would often say:
“Do it the way Mang Kiko does.”
And the argument would immediately fall silent.
One day, a child approached him as he was selling.
“Uncle Kiko,” the child asked,
“how did you resist the temptation to cheat, even when you were poor?”
The old man smiled and replied:
“Child, cheating is like stealing from yourself.
Your money may increase,
but your humanity decreases.
And that is a loss no one can ever repay.”
The child grew up carrying that lesson —
just like many others in San Isidro.
And in a town once deceived by false measurements,
the people learned that a clean conscience
is more valuable than perfect weight.
Because in the end,
justice may be delayed,
but truth —
always weighs correctly.