Part 3:
Thirteen years later, just when I thought our family was finally at peace,
suspicion returned like a curse.
One evening, while I was washing dishes, Maria received a phone call.
After hanging up, she asked our son to finish the dishes.
I was watching the evening news and asked why she was going out so late.
She said there was something urgent and she would be back soon.
As soon as she left the gate, I followed her.
She turned into a narrow alley not far away and stopped in front of an old boarding house.
She entered a small rented room and closed the door, as if she were very familiar with the place.
My face burned.
My heart felt like it was on fire.
Who was she meeting inside?
Was it another man?
I tried to wait outside, but after five minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore.
If she was betraying me, I had to catch her in the act—I couldn’t just stand there guessing.
Blood rushed to my head.
I knocked on the door, terrified that when it opened, I would see something I could never forgive.
Maria opened the door, shock written all over her face.
“Why are you here?”
“Why can’t I be here?” I replied, stepping inside.
But the scene before me was nothing like I had imagined.
On a small bed in the corner lay a frail, sickly woman.
The room was filled with the sharp smell of medicine.
She sat up and looked at me.
Tears suddenly streamed down her face.
Maria said anxiously,
“Your mother has no one left. Her son doesn’t dare to see her. I really couldn’t abandon her. Please don’t be angry with me.”
My ears rang when I heard the words “your mother.”
The woman who had left me waiting under the acacia tree thirty-two years ago.
The woman who abandoned me to a drunk father and a cold-hearted family.
The woman who forced me to grow up with tears soaked into every meal.
So much time had passed that I no longer clearly remembered her face.
In my memory, she was only a floral blouse and long hair disappearing into an afternoon long ago.
She had abandoned her husband and child—
surely her life afterward must have been happier, much better.
So why was she standing before me like this now?
How did she know where I lived?
Who told her?
“I asked around for a long time,” she said weakly.
“Finally, your close friend gave me your address.
I didn’t want to disturb you.
I just wanted to see you every day, before I no longer have the strength to see anything at all.”
I didn’t want to hear another word.
I slammed the door and ran outside.
The autumn air was cold,
but nothing was colder than my heart.
My ears rang.
Thirty-two years ago, this woman left me under the acacia tree.
For thirty-two years, I lived like a child without a mother.
I couldn’t listen anymore.
That night, Maria told me the truth—
and it cut through my past like a knife.
My mother hadn’t left because of an affair.
My father was an alcoholic.
He abused her.
He brought another woman into the house, with my grandmother’s full approval.
She had always considered my mother inferior.
One night, after a beating that nearly killed her,
my mother was thrown out of the house with only the clothes she was wearing.
She secretly took me with her at first,
but when she saw how hopeless the future was
and feared she wouldn’t be able to protect or feed me,
she left me under the acacia tree and walked away.
She had no money.
No documents.
No child by her side.
She drifted to Hong Kong and worked as a domestic helper,
then was tricked and sold to a poor Chinese man in a remote rural area to become his wife.
She lived like a shadow.
No language.
No escape.
The man eventually died.
When she learned she didn’t have much time left,
she saved every coin and bought a ticket back to the Philippines.
She didn’t dare return to her hometown.
Didn’t dare face her former husband.
Didn’t dare confront the past.
She only wanted to see me from afar.
Maria was the one who discovered her—
the woman who stood in front of our gate every morning.
Maria had hidden all this from me,
not out of betrayal,
but out of filial compassion.
She took care of my mother, brought her to the hospital, bought her medicine, rented the small room—
all with her own savings.
“I know you hate her,” Maria said.
“But I couldn’t let her die alone.”
I cried like a child.
For thirty-two years, I hated my mother
because I loved her too much.
I brought my mother home.
I helped restore her documents.
I cared for her during the last days of her life.
For the first time in thirty-two years,
I was able to say again:
“Mom.”
ENDING
My mother passed away on a peaceful afternoon,
holding my hand and Maria’s.
After the funeral, I looked at my wife for a long time.
In this society, people often praise filial children.
But there are daughters-in-law who sacrifice in silence,
who love without seeking recognition.
My family’s story is not just about a misunderstanding.
It is a portrait of domestic violence,
human trafficking,
cross-border marriages,
and the untold suffering of poor mothers.
Above all, it reminds me of one thing:
Some women do not abandon their children—
they are simply robbed by life of the right to be a mother.