It was a cloudy morning in Quezon City. The December sky was gray and cold. A cold breeze crept under the door of our small house. I hugged my old shawl tightly as I arrived in front of my son Marco’s room.
He was holding a small bank notebook — a deposit of over half a million pesos, inherited from my late uncle, my mother’s brother, who had died in Cebu. He planned to use that money to fix up the house, build a better room for Marco’s family, and save the rest for medical emergencies.
Instead of greeting me, this is what I heard from inside the room:
“Darling, when is your mother leaving?” Denise, Marco’s wife, asked in a tone of annoyance. It’s always like this. The house is small and there are still old people around. It’s embarrassing when visitors come.
“Denise… This is my mother. She has nowhere else to go,” Marco replied, clearly hesitant.
“When we got married, she said she had nothing to give us but an old television. Is this how a mother should support us? Are we the ones who have to adjust?”
“Just leave her alone. I’ll find her a place to stay. We’ll just send you money every month.
I’m devastated.
I’ve been living in Metro Manila for three decades, ever since I came from Leyte. I’ve raised Marco alone since my husband died in a boat accident. I’ve washed clothes, sold food, worked at home — all so he could finish his studies. The house they live in now? I saved it through twenty years of sacrifice.
I thought that as I got older, I would relax a little. A small recognition. But no. To my son-in-law, I was just a burden.
I put the booklet in my pocket. I left in silence. Without a sound. Without a goodbye. I felt like a ghost lost in myself.
That night, I went to Laguna, where I knew someone. There I rented a small apartment – barely 15 square meters, but with one window, plants outside and, above all: silence.
I wasn’t angry. I didn’t hold grudges. For the first time in my life, I decided to live for myself.
That was the beginning of a new phase.
Every morning, I walked to the market. I made coffee while watching a drama on YouTube. I joined a group of grandmothers who did zumba every morning in the plaza. At noon I read a paperback book, and at night I watched old Nora Aunor and Vilma Santos movies.
Just slowly. Stop.
Marco would call every now and then. I don’t answer. Sometimes text messages come saying, “Mom, where are you?” – I delete them. I don’t want drama. I don’t want explanations.
I’ve given my whole life away. It’s time to get myself back.
Two months have passed.
At home in Quezon City, things have started to change.
My son Marco is quieter. Denise is not so grumpy anymore. But the one who is most affected … is my grandson Jio, who is seven years old.
He is no longer a happy child. He eats little. Every morning he asks the same question:
“Where is Grandma?”
Marco and Denise don’t know how to answer. But the truth is this: the child feels the absence.
The hand that always caresses his shoulder at night is gone. There is no longer a voice whispering: “Son, pray first.” No longer the presence of the one person who did not judge, who did not ask for anything in return, and who was always there.
One day, Marco could not stand it any longer. He went to Leyte to find Aunt Lourdes, my cousin. There he confessed:
“Aunt… it was my fault. I did not defend Mom.
Lourdes caressed him silently. She showed him a picture of me — wearing sandals, wearing a dress, smiling as I walked with the other young women in the plaza.
“Now he is happy. Finally.
The next day, he found the room I was renting. Outside, gumamela flowers grew. A rag hung on a wire. The place smelled of burnt food.
Knock, knock.
I opened the door with a ladle in my hand.
I stopped. “Marco…”
He did not speak right away. Tears filled his eyes.
“Mom… I’m sorry. Please come back. Dennis is sorry.
I didn’t answer. I turned around and drank the 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’ll stay here.
“Why, Mom?”
I looked at her. Calmly, but firmly:
I looked at her. Calmly, but firmly:
“Because I’m just learning to love myself. And I want to stand firm about that.
A week later, Jio came to visit. He hugged me immediately.
“Grandma, you’ve been gone for a long time. Don’t leave.”
I stroked her hair. She offered me her favorite boiled mung beans.
Since then, every Saturday and Sunday, Marco has taken me to Jio’s. Sometimes, Denise even comes. She helps me in the kitchen. We’re not close yet, but we still put in the effort. And that, for me, is enough.
One day, Marco calls.
“Mommy, I cooked adobo. Do you want me to bring you some?”
Smile. I didn’t answer right away. But for the first time, I felt that this gesture didn’t come from guilt, but from sincere understanding.
The money? It was still on the bench. I didn’t spend it out of anger. It was an offering for my own peace. Because I learned something today:
True love is not endless sacrifice. It must be recognized, respected and has boundaries.
This time, I will not let myself repeat myself.