WHEN I TURNED 52, IT SEEMED THAT LIFE GAVE ME A SECOND CHANCE: I RECEIVED A LARGE AMOUNT OF MONEY. I WAS HAPPY, I DECIDED TO TELL MY SON THE NEWS. BUT WHEN I ARRIVED AT HIS ROOM DOOR, I HEARD A CONVERSATION THAT COOLED MY BLOOD. THEY WERE NOT TALKING ABOUT PLANS OR HAPPINESS… BUT HOW DID THEY KICK ME OUT OF MY OWN HOUSE? MONEY BECAME VALUELESS. IN THAT MOMENT I KNEW THAT MY LIFE HAD CHANGED FOREVER AND THAT THE BIGGEST PAIN WAS NOT THE BETRAYAL, BUT KNOWING WHO PLANNED IT.
There was fog in Quezon City; The sky was cold and gray in December. A cold breeze blew under the door of our small house. I hugged my old shawl tightly as I stood in front of my son Marco’s room.
I had a small bank passbook: a deposit of over half a million, which I had inherited from my late mother’s brother, who had passed away in Cebu. I planned to use it to fix up our house, build a better room for Marco’s family, and save the rest as an emergency fund in case I got sick.
“Kuya, when is Mommy leaving?” Denise, Marco’s wife, asked with a hint of annoyance in her voice. She came every day. The house was small and there were still old people hanging around. It was sad when there were visitors.
“Denise… She’s a mother. She has nowhere to go,” Marco replied, clearly hesitant.
When we got married, she said she had nothing to give us but an old TV. Is that how a mother understands? And now we want to adapt?
“Leave it.” I will find him a place to stay. We will send you money every month.
I am depressed.
I have been living in Metro Manila from Leyte for three decades. I have raised Marco alone since my wife died in a boat accident. I have been a laundryman, a grocery seller, a housekeeper; All this so that he can finish his studies. What house do they live in now? I saved it after 20 years of perseverance.
I thought that as I grew older, I would feel a little relief. A little appreciation. But no. To my son-in-law, I was a mess.
I put the notebook in my pocket. I left in silence. No noise. No goodbyes. I was like a ghost lost in myself.
That night I went to Laguna where I knew someone. There I rented a small apartment of only 15 square meters, but with a window, outdoor plants and, above all, silence.
I am not angry. I do not hold grudges. For the first time in my life, I chose to live for myself.
Every morning I walk to the market. I make coffee while watching soap operas on YouTube. I join a group of grandmothers who do zumba every morning in the plaza. At noon I read a paperback book and at night I watch old movies by Nora Aunor and Vilma Santos.
Just slowly. Peacefully.
Marco calls every now and then. He doesn’t answer. There are messages saying, “Mom, where are you?” I delete them. I don’t want drama. I don’t want explanations.
I have given my whole life away. It’s time to give it back.
Two months have passed.
At home in Quezon City, things began to change.
My son Marco seemed calmer. Denise was no longer so grumpy. But who was the most affected? My grandson, Jio, seven years old.
He was no longer a happy child. He no longer ate much. Every morning, he would ask:
“Where is Grandma?”
Marco and Denise didn’t know how to answer. But the truth was that the boy felt the loss.
The hand that always held his shoulder every night was gone. The voice that whispered, “Son, pray first.” The presence of the one person who didn’t judge, who didn’t ask for anything in return and was always there was gone.
One day, Marco couldn’t take it anymore. He went to Leyte to find Tita Lourdes, my cousin. There she confessed:
“Auntie… it was my fault. I didn’t fight for Mama.”
Lourdes stroked her silently. She showed her a picture of me: wearing slippers, wearing a dress, smiling as I walked with other old women in the square. “Now she’s happy. Finally.”
The next day, she found the room she was renting. Outside, there were gumamela burns. A rag hung from a wire. The air smelled of burnt food.
Case, case.
I opened the door with a ladle in hand.
I stopped. “Marco…”
He didn’t speak right away. His eyes were filled with tears.
“Mom… I’m sorry. Go home, Mom. Dennis’s sorry.”
I didn’t answer. I turned around and drank my tea. I carefully placed it on the table. He sat down on the wooden bench. We were silent for a long time.
“I’m not angry,” I finally said. But for now, I’m here.
“Why, Mom?”
I looked at her. Calmly, but determinedly:
Because I just learned to love myself. And I want to stay true to that.
A week later Jio visited me. She hugged me immediately.
Grandma, you’ve been gone for a long time. Don’t go.
I stroked her hair. She fed me her favorite boiled mung beans.
Since then, every Saturday and Sunday, Marco has taken me with Jio. Occasionally, Denise joins in. She’s started helping in the kitchen. We’re not close friends yet, but we work hard. And that’s enough for me.
One day, she called.
Mom, I made adobo. Do you want to try it?
She smiled. She didn’t answer yet. But for the first time, I felt a change; Not out of shame, but out of real understanding.
The money? It was still on the bench. I didn’t spend it out of anger. It was an offering for in my own peace. Because now I have learned:
True love is not an endless sacrifice. It must be recognized, respected and has limits that are respected.
This time, I will not let them notice me anymore.