My name is Anton Santos. I am 32 years old and I live in a luxurious apartment in Bonifacio Global City (BGC), the modern heart of Taguig.
During my university years at UP Diliman, I fell in love with Liza, a girl with a heart of gold who always wore a smile despite her hardships. She worked as an assistant in the college library to pay for her studies, while I—an Economics student consumed by ambition—felt that the world was too small for me.
After graduating, I landed a job at a multinational firm in Makati. My salary went up, my suits became more expensive, and my social circle changed. Liza, on the other hand, could only find a humble job as a receptionist at a small hostel in Ermita.
One day, looking at my reflection in the glass of the skyscrapers, I told myself: “I deserve someone on my level.”
I left her with a coldness that burns my soul today. I replaced her with Bianca, the daughter of one of the company directors: a woman from the high society of Forbes Park, elegant, but with a heart of ice. Liza said nothing; she just lowered her gaze and disappeared into the chaos of the city.
Five years later, I was Vice President of Sales. I drove a Mercedes-Benz and lived surrounded by luxury, but my home was a battlefield. My marriage to Bianca was an empty contract. She despised my middle-class roots and, every time we argued, she threw the same dart at me: “Without my Dad’s influence, you would still be just another employee in the cubicles.”
One day, at a reunion with former university classmates at a bar in Poblacion, a friend dropped the news: “Did you hear about Liza? She’s getting married on Saturday in her hometown, in Laguna.” “Oh, really?” I replied with arrogance. “To whom? Some bank manager?” “No… she’s marrying a construction worker. They say they barely have enough for the party, but she looks radiant.”
I let out a bitter laugh over my expensive whiskey. “Happy with a laborer? She definitely never had any vision.”
I decided to go to that wedding. Not out of nostalgia, but out of ego. I wanted to arrive in my luxury car, with my Swiss watch, so she could see the “success” she had let go.
I drove to a small barangay on the outskirts of Calamba. The wedding wasn’t in a cathedral, but in the yard of a humble house, decorated with colorful buntings, rented plastic chairs, and the scent of lechon and fresh wildflowers.
I stepped out of my car, adjusting my suit jacket, feeling the eyes of the neighbors on me. I felt like a king visiting the suburbs.
Then, I saw the groom.
My world collapsed. He was there, standing by the makeshift altar, wearing a simple but impeccable Barong Tagalog. It was Jomar.
Jomar had been my best friend in college. A brilliant guy who lost a leg in a terrible jeepney accident during our third year. Despite his disability, Jomar was always the one who encouraged us all, the one who studied late, and the one who never complained. I had erased him from my life because, in my climb to success, I didn’t want any “dead weight.”
I heard two neighborhood titas whispering near me: “That boy, Jomar, is a miracle. He works as a foreman at construction sites despite his prosthesis. He built the little house where they are going to live with his own hands. He may not have much money, but he adores Liza like a queen.”
I saw Liza walking toward him. She wore no diamonds, but her eyes shone with a peace I hadn’t felt in years. Jomar received her with a look of respect and pure love, standing firm on his good leg.
I turned around before they could see me. The lump in my throat wouldn’t let me breathe.
I drove back to Manila in silence. Upon arriving at my empty, cold apartment, I threw the car keys on the floor and sat down. I cried like I hadn’t since I was a child.
I wasn’t crying because I still loved Liza. I was crying because I realized that I was the poor man.
Jomar, with one leg, had built a home. I had only bought walls.
Jomar, with a laborer’s wage, was respected for his character. I, with my degree, was humiliated by my own wife.
Jomar had a complete heart; I had a full bank account and an empty soul.
From that day on, something changed in me.
I stopped measuring people by their status. I started treating the security guard in my building and the lady selling food on the street with respect. Finally, I divorced Bianca, renounced the comfort of her father’s favors, and sought a path where my value depended on my effort, not my connections.
Today, when I walk through the streets of Makati and see the workers resting in the shade after a hard day, I no longer look down on them. I think of Jomar and Liza.
Because in the Philippines, we say that “Pagkatao” (humanity and character) is worth more than any treasure. I learned, in the most painful way, that real success is not reaching the top by trampling on others, but having the dignity to look into the eyes of the one you love, even if you have nothing more to offer than your own hands.