Lorna glanced at the prescription and typed quickly.
“Four hundred fifty pesos. Do you have the money?”
Botong nodded firmly. Slowly, he untied the knot in his shirt.
Clatter… jingle… crash!
Hundreds of coins spilled onto the counter—tiny ten-cent coins, rusty five-peso coins, worn so smooth the numbers had faded.
“Is this a joke?” a man behind him scoffed.
“Hey kid, stop playing store. You’re wasting everyone’s time!”
Lorna frowned. “Child, I don’t have time to count all this. Why don’t you exchange it for bills first and come back?”
Botong looked around desperately.
“I’m sorry… the sari-sari store isn’t open yet… my father is coughing so badly… I’m afraid I’ll be too late…”
As he tried to group the coins into tens with his dusty little hands, something tightened in Lorna’s chest. She took a deep breath and began counting.
Ten… twenty… fifty… one hundred…
After ten long minutes, the total reached only 185 pesos.
“Child,” Lorna said gently, conflicted, “this is only a third of the amount. I can’t sell antibiotics on credit. Do you have any more money?”
The words struck like lightning.
Botong clung to the counter, his small shoulders shaking. Tears streamed down his cheeks, carving clean lines through the dirt.
“Please, ma’am… I beg you… this is everything I have… I skipped breakfast all year… I didn’t buy toys… please save my father…”
The pharmacy fell silent.
The man who had complained earlier lowered his head in shame.
Lorna stared at the coins—not just money, but sweat, hunger, and abandoned childhood dreams. She thought of her own son at home, the same age, sleeping warmly in bed.
Wiping her tears, Lorna turned and gathered all the medicines on the prescription—then added immunity syrup and a bag of premium milk powder. She carefully wrote instructions on each box.
Returning to the counter, she opened her wallet and quietly placed 300 pesos from her own money into the register.
She handed the medicine bag to Botong.
“Take it, child. Your father’s medicine. All of it.”
Botong stared in disbelief. “But… you said I didn’t have enough…”
Lorna smiled through tears.
“You paid with the most expensive currency in the world—filial love.”
She gently pushed the 185 pesos back to him.
“Use this to buy your father a big bowl of porridge, and a bread roll for yourself. You need strength to take care of him.”
Botong bowed deeply, sobbing his thanks, clutching the medicine like a priceless treasure as he ran into the morning sunlight.
Behind him, customers began to clap. Some wiped their eyes.
The power of small coins and a kind heart had created a miracle.
One week later, Carding could sit up again. The first thing he did was hold Botong’s hand and return to the pharmacy to thank the woman who saved his life.
The story of Botong’s “savings tin” became a beloved tale in the town—a reminder that a person’s true worth is not measured by bank balances, but by the weight of love they are willing to give.