I felt my heart break into a thousand pieces—not because of the threat itself, but because I saw nothing in her eyes. Only coldness. As if I was an old rusted trunk taking up too much space in her house.
What she didn’t know was that I had been hiding a secret for thirty years. A secret powerful enough to change everything between us. And in that moment, I decided to use the only weapon I had left: the truth.
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My name is Suman. I am sixty-two years old. And my whole life, I believed that a mother’s love could overcome anything. That giving everything—your time, energy, strength, health—would be enough for children to recognize your sacrifices.
But life taught me, in a very brutal way, that this is not always true.
I raised Aarohi alone since she was five.
My husband, Karan, abandoned us one night without looking back. He left behind only debts and a small ancestral house in the province of Batangas, in a town surrounded by coconut plantations and rolling hills.
The house had a large yard with two cows and some goats that Karan kept as a hobby. When he left, I thought about selling everything for survival. But Aarohi loved those animals. Her eyes lit up whenever she fed the cows. I couldn’t take that away from her.
So I stayed.
I worked as a seamstress during the day and as a house helper in nearby homes at night.
My hands became rough, my legs swollen, my back constantly aching.
But every time Aarohi smiled, I thought it was all worth it.
I paid for her education, her books, her clothes, her dreams.
When she decided to study business management at the University of the Philippines in Quezon City, I sold the gold jewelry my mother had given me. With that money, I paid her first semester.
It was in Quezon City that she met Raghav, a boy from an extremely wealthy family. From the beginning, I saw the contempt he had for our simple life. When he visited us for the first time, he looked around the house, the animals, the cracked walls—and I saw his face tighten with disgust.
But Aarohi was in love.
And who was I to come between her happiness?
They married three years later. I used up my last savings to help with the ceremony.
Raghav didn’t even say thank you.
He smiled his plastic smile and went back to chatting with his rich friends.
That was the first day I felt like I was losing my daughter—not to marriage, but to a world I didn’t belong to.
For a few years, things were quiet. Aarohi visited occasionally—always in a rush, always checking her watch. I pretended not to notice how she kept drifting away from me.
Until two years ago.
Karan—my ex-husband—died in a car accident on the South Luzon Expressway near Tagaytay.
We were called by a lawyer. I didn’t expect anything; after all, Karan had left us with nothing.
But life is strange.
During the years he was away, Karan had invested in real estate and stocks. And for reasons I will never understand, he left everything to Aarohi—around ₱80 million.
When the lawyer told us the amount, I saw a spark in Aarohi’s eyes.
It wasn’t joy.
It was ambition.
Raghav’s smile beside her gave me chills.
Three months after receiving the money, they came to my house with a “proposal.”
They wanted to build a resort and homestay on my land—agritourism was booming in Batangas, they said.
They needed me to sign papers temporarily transferring the property to their names so they could get a loan.
Something inside me screamed not to sign.
But Aarohi held my hands and said in that soft voice:
“Mama, trust me. We’re doing this for you. You’ll finally have a comfortable life.”
Raghav added:
“Ate Suman, you’ve worked enough. Let us take care of things now.”
I signed.
God forgive me—I signed.
Construction began.
They expanded the land, built cottages where the cows used to graze, and renovated the old house into a reception area.
With each passing day, their behavior changed.
Aarohi started correcting the way I spoke Tagalog, criticizing my clothes, my manners.
Then she ordered me around like a servant—told me to clean, cook, change bedsheets, serve tea to tourists.
I obeyed. I thought I was helping them.
Helping us.
Then things got worse.
They shifted me from my bedroom to a tiny storeroom near the kitchen, saying they needed the bigger space for guests.
And then, three months ago, I discovered the truth.
In a drawer, I found the property papers.
Everything—my house, my land—was permanently registered in Aarohi’s and Raghav’s names.
They had tricked me.
When I confronted Aarohi, she shrugged.
“Mama, you don’t understand business. This is what’s best. Now stop overreacting.”
From then on, her behavior became openly cruel.
She called me a burden.
Dead weight.
An old woman who needed to “stay out of the way.”
Until that Tuesday morning.
I had been up since dawn—cooking arroz caldo for guests, sweeping the courtyard, serving tea.
My back hurt horribly.
At 10 a.m., Aarohi stormed into the kitchen.
“Mama! I told you not to touch the guests’ things!”
I looked at her, confused.
“But you asked me to clean the room—”
“You broke a vase worth ₱40,000! You’re useless!”
I hadn’t broken anything.
She wouldn’t listen.
Raghav appeared with that devilish smirk.
“Aarohi, we discussed this. Your mom is getting old. She’s becoming more of a problem than a help.”
And then Aarohi gave me the ultimatum that ended everything.
“Either you go to an old-age home, or you sleep outside in the carabao shed. Choose.”
Something in me snapped.
Not my heart—that broke long ago.
But my fear.
My silence.
My foolish hope.
“All right,” I said quietly. “I’ll leave.”
Aarohi smirked, expecting tears.
But I wasn’t done.
“But first… I need to make a phone call.”
For the first time in years, the air between us felt… breathable.
I showed Aaralyn how I blended the colors for the sky, how I used gentle circular motions for the texture of the horse’s mane. She listened quietly, genuinely curious. It felt strange — my daughter asking me about my interests, my life.
Strange, but good.
After a while, she asked:
“Ma… can I watch you paint again tomorrow?”
I hesitated.
Not because I didn’t want her there — but because I didn’t want to return to the old patterns… where she became the center of everything.
But this time, something was different.
This time, she wasn’t taking.
She was showing up.
“Maybe,” I said with a smile. “If you’re not busy.”
“I’ll make time,” she whispered.
And I believed her.
CHANGES AT THE HOMESTAY
The next month brought changes — small ones, but meaningful.
Rae, the new staff member from the barangay, now handled the cleaning and maintenance. I no longer worked from dawn to dusk. I no longer felt like a servant in my own home.
I had my own space again — a room overlooking the rice terraces and coconut trees. A place filled with sunlight, canvases, and peace.
The tenants’ contract — the one that made Aaralyn and Ramil renters on my land — created a new clarity between us. No more blurred lines. No more unspoken expectations.
Every first day of the month, Ramil would bring the rent payment to me personally. He would lower his gaze, no arrogance, no fake smiles — just quiet respect.
He had changed too. Maybe out of fear of losing the business, maybe out of guilt, maybe out of genuine growth. I didn’t know yet.
But at least, he tried.
And that mattered.
THERAPY, HEALING, AND TRUTH
Family therapy continued every Friday in Dr. Luningning’s clinic in Manila.
Some sessions were calm.
Some were explosive.
Some left us silent and exhausted.
But every week, something cracked open — and in those cracks, light entered.
One session, Aaralyn confessed:
“Ma, when I built this place, I wanted to prove something — not to you, not to Ramil, but to myself. I wanted to build a life so different from the poverty we grew up in that no one could ever hurt me again. But in the process… I became the person I hated.”
I listened.
I didn’t interrupt.
I didn’t rescue her from her own accountability.
And that was progress — for both of us.
Another session focused on me.
Dr. Luningning said:
“Althea, you’ve spent your whole life caring for others. But who takes care of you?”
I had no answer.
But it planted a seed.
In my individual sessions, I learned that I had built my entire existence around survival, sacrifice, and motherhood. That my worth had always come from service.
Now, for the first time, I was learning how to exist for myself.
It felt terrifying.
And freeing.
One Sunday afternoon, while I was watering the sampaguita plants near the gate, Aaralyn approached me slowly, holding something behind her back.
“Ma,” she said softly, “I have something for you.”
I turned.
She handed me a small box wrapped in old newspaper.
Inside was a set of watercolor brushes — high quality, expensive, the brand artists in Cebu and Manila rave about.
“For your painting classes,” she said shyly. “And… for everything.”
I traced my fingers over the brushes.
My throat tightened.
“Aaralyn… why the newspaper?” I asked gently.
She laughed, embarrassed.
“Eco-friendly,” she said. “Also… I didn’t want the store clerk thinking I was buying something expensive for myself.”
For the first time in years — maybe since she was a child — I saw in her eyes a familiar softness. A vulnerability she had buried under ambition and pride.
I touched her cheek lightly.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She held my hand for a moment — hesitant, trembling — before letting go.
But the moment stayed.
Healing is not a straight line.
Some days we worked together peacefully.
Other days, one of us would slip into old habits — a harsh tone, a defensive comment, a guilt-loaded sigh.
But every time, we paused.
We talked.
We repaired.
For the first time in our lives, we weren’t avoiding the wounds — we were cleaning them.
Slowly, painfully, but sincerely.
One night at dinner — grilled bangus, ensaladang talong, and rice — Aaralyn looked at me and said:
“Ma… I used to think strength meant never needing anyone.
Now I’m learning that strength also means admitting when you were wrong.”
I nodded.
“I’m learning too,” I said. “Strength isn’t suffering in silence. It’s knowing when to stop suffering.”
We both smiled — tired, tender smiles — but real.
THE FINAL STEP
Months passed.
The homestay stabilized.
Tenant relationships became smoother.
My paintings filled my room — scenes of palm trees, carabaos, sunsets over dipping hills.
I even sold two pieces to tourists.
Me — Althea, the woman who once scrubbed floors in wealthy houses — selling art.
The night the payment came, I cried quietly on my veranda.
Not from sadness.
From rediscovery.
From finally meeting myself.
One evening, at golden hour, Aaralyn knocked on my door.
“Ma?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“Can I watch the sunset with you?”
We sat together on the bamboo bench as the sun sank behind the coconut groves.
She rested her head on my shoulder — lightly, cautiously — like she was afraid I’d push her away.
But I didn’t.
I let her.
Because forgiveness is not forgetting.
Forgiveness is allowing yourself to move forward without carrying the weight like a stone in your chest.
We sat quietly until the fireflies began to appear.
“Ma,” she murmured, “thank you for not giving up on me.”
I squeezed her hand.
“Aaralyn… we both made mistakes. But we’re both trying now. And that’s what matters.”
She inhaled shakily.
“I love you, Ma.”
Not whispered out of guilt.
Not forced out of obligation.
Not said to manipulate.
Just sincere, raw truth.
It was the first time I heard those words in years.
I felt something inside me loosen — like a knot unraveling after decades.
“I love you too,” I whispered.
And for the first time in a very long time…
I believed everything could be okay.
Not perfect.
Not simple.
Not like the stories in teleseryes.
But real.
Human.
Messy.
Healing.
Together — but without losing ourselves.