CHAPTER 1: The Long Walk Under the Tropical Sun
The heat of the Philippine afternoon was suffocating. The sun beat down on the cogon grass, and the humidity made my shirt stick to my back like a second skin. But the sweat was nothing compared to the pain in my chest. My daughter, Angel, was crying—a weak, dry cry that pierced my soul.
She was three months old. And I, Dante, a former accountant from Makati who had lost everything, had run out of formula milk.
“Tahan na, anak (Hush now, child)… Papa will find a way,” I whispered, shielding her from the dust kicked up by a passing tricycle that didn’t stop.
We were walking along the dirt road bordering Hacienda Amor. My second-hand owner-type jeep had broken down kilometers back. The sari-sari store (small neighborhood store) in our rental village had no stock, and the nearest town proper with a grocery store was a five-kilometer trek.
I had fled Manila after my wife, Trina, died in a public hospital due to complications we couldn’t afford to treat quickly enough. The city was too loud, too full of memories. I moved to the province for a simpler life, but poverty in the province is just as cruel as in the city.
Suddenly, I heard a voice. “Hoy! Mister! Wait lang!”
A woman in muddy boots and a denim jacket over a floral shirt jumped over the bamboo fence of the Hacienda. She was wiping sweat from her forehead, her hair tied in a messy bun.
“You’re Dante, right? The tenant in Mang Berting’s old house?” she asked, catching her breath.
I held Angel tighter. “Yes. Pasensya na, I’m just passing through. I need to get to the Bayan (town).”
“You won’t make it,” she said bluntly. “The heat is too much for the baby. And the jeepneys don’t pass here at this hour.” She looked at Angel, then at me. “She’s hungry.”
“I… I know,” I said, shame burning my face. Hiya is a powerful thing for a Filipino man.
“I’m Isabela Amor. I own this land,” she pointed to the sprawling fields of coffee and grazing cattle. “I have fresh carabao milk. Pasteurized. I can give you as much as you need. For free.”
“Walang libre sa mundo (Nothing is free in this world),” I muttered.
Isabela looked around to ensure none of her sakadas were listening.
“You’re right. It’s not free. I’ll give you milk, food, and a home for you and your daughter. In exchange… you have to marry me.”
I nearly dropped the umbrella I was using to shade Angel. “Ano ? Are you crazy, Miss?”
“Desperate,” she corrected. “My Lolo Don Federico died two months ago. He was an old-fashioned man. He left a clause in the pamana: If I don’t have a husband within 30 days, the Hacienda goes to my cousin, Ramon.”
“So? Let him have it.”
“Ramon is a politician with gambling debts,” she spat the words out. “He’s already talking to developers. He wants to pave over these fields, cut down the coffee trees, and turn this place into a concrete subdivision and a mall. Hundreds of families work here, Dante. If I lose this land, they lose their livelihood. I need a husband on paper to stop him.”
She looked at Angel, her expression softening. “And you… you need a home. That baby needs a mother figure, or at least a safe roof. Be my husband. Separate rooms. We divorce or annul after the title is transferred.”
Angel let out a loud wail. That sound decided my fate.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Para sa anak ko (For my child).”
CHAPTER 2: The Teleserye Wedding
The town buzzed with chismis. “The spinster Señorita Isabela is marrying the poor city boy!”
We got married in a quick civil ceremony at the Municipal Hall. No Barong Tagalog, just a clean polo shirt I managed to iron.
Ramon arrived at the reception—a simple feast of lechon and pancit in the Hacienda courtyard—driving a massive black SUV with a government plate. He looked like every villain in a prime-time soap opera: slick hair, gold watch, fake smile.
“Cousin!” Ramon boomed. “And this must be the… lucky man. Or should I say, the hired help?”
“Watch your mouth, Ramon,” Isabela said, gripping my arm.
“We’ll see in court,” Ramon sneered. “I know this is fake. I’ll prove it, take the land, and turn this farm into ‘Amor Residences’.”
The legal battle was brutal. Ramon’s lawyers tried to frame me as a gold digger. They interviewed the neighbors, the tricycle drivers, everyone.
One night, before the final hearing, a brownout hit the province. Isabela and I sat on the porch by candlelight, fanning Angel to keep the mosquitoes away.
“Why do you fight so hard for this land?” I asked. “You could sell it and live like a queen in BGC or Rockwell.”
“It’s not about the money,” Isabela said, peeling a lanzones fruit. “It’s about bayanihan. My family has taken care of the workers here for generations. If Ramon takes over, Manang Fe, Mang Jose, all of them… they become squatters on their own land. I can’t let that happen.”
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She wasn’t just a rich haciendera; she was a protector.
“We won’t let him win,” I said.
The Courtroom Scene
Ramon’s lawyer grilled me. “Mr. Dante, what is your wife’s favorite dish? If you truly love her, you must know.”
I froze. We hadn’t practiced this. I looked at Isabela. She looked terrified.
“Sinigang,” I said. “But not just any Sinigang. She likes it with gabi to make the soup thick, and she prefers the fat of the pork belly. And she eats it with patis and chili on the side.”
It was a guess. Every Filipino loves Sinigang. But I had noticed how she ate during our awkward dinners.
Isabela smiled, a real smile.
The judge, an old woman who reminded me of my own grandmother, looked at us. “I see a man who pays attention. And I see a woman who looks safe beside him. In this country, practical love is often stronger than romantic love. Petition denied. The Hacienda stays with Isabela.”
CHAPTER 3: Kesong Puti and Crab Mentality
Life settled into a rhythm. I took over the finances—Isabela was great with crops but terrible with taxes. I realized the Hacienda was bleeding money because they were selling raw milk cheap.
“Let’s process it,” I suggested over breakfast of pandesal and coffee. “Let’s make Kesong Puti and gourmet Pastillas.”
“Sus, that’s too much work,” Manang Fe, the head helper, complained.
“It’s value-added,” I insisted. “We brand it. ‘Hacienda Amor Premium’. We sell to the cafes in Tagaytay and Manila.”
We worked hard. Kayod kalabaw. The business started to boom. Angel grew up calling Isabela “Mama Isa,” and Isabela loved her as her own.
But Ramon wasn’t done. Crab mentality is strong.
One night, smoke filled the air. “Sunog!” yelled the workers.
Someone had set fire to the storage barn where we kept the new packaging machines. We ran with buckets of water, the whole barangay (village) helping out to douse the flames.
Standing amidst the ashes, Isabela cried. “It’s over. We don’t have insurance for this yet.”
I held her hand, soot covering our faces. “No. Look.”
The neighbors were already cleaning up. Some brought wood, others brought food.
“Hindi kayo nag-iisa” said Mang Jose, the oldest farmer. “We will rebuild.”
That night, amidst the smell of smoke, Isabela and I didn’t sleep in separate rooms. We realized that the “contract” had burned away, leaving something real underneath.
A few weeks later, Isabela was vomiting in the morning. She thought it was the stress or maybe bad tapsilog.
“Isabela,” I said, holding a pregnancy test kit I bought from the Bayan. “Check.”
Two lines.
“Is another baby okay?” she asked, worried. “With the farm struggling?”
“We are Filipinos,” I grinned. “We survive storms, volcanoes, and corrupt politicians. We can handle a baby.”
CHAPTER 4: The True Fiesta
Ten years later.
Hacienda Amor was no longer just a farm; it was an agri-tourism destination. Weekend warriors from Manila drove down to experience farm life, buy our famous Kesong Puti, and drink Kapeng Barako.
Ramon had lost his election bid and faded into obscurity, buried in debt.
We threw a massive Fiesta for Angel’s 12th birthday and the baptism of our third child, Rizal. There was a karaoke machine blasting classic ballads, a line of buffet tables with Kaldereta, Menudo, and Lechon, and colorful banderitas everywhere.
A representative from a massive conglomerate approached me.
“Sir Dante,” the man said in a suit that looked too hot for the weather. “We have a new offer. We want to buy the Hacienda. Name your price. You can retire in a condo in Makati.”
I looked at Isabela, who was teaching Angel how to dance the Tinikling. I looked at the workers, who were now shareholders in the cooperative we established.
“Pasensya na, boss,” I said, handing him a plate of food. “Eat first, then leave. This land isn’t for sale. It’s not just land anymore. It’s our home.”
As the sun set over Mount Batulao, painting the sky in purple and orange, Isabela walked over to me.
“Do you remember the day you were walking on that road?” she asked.
“I remember the dust,” I laughed.
“I remember thinking I was buying a husband,” she smiled, resting her head on my shoulder. “Turns out, I was investing in my life.”
“Sulit ang deal,” I kissed her forehead.
From the karaoke machine, someone started singing “Kahit Maputi Na Ang Buhok Ko”. We listened, surrounded by family, full bellies, and a future as rich and strong as the coffee we grew.
Wakas (The End)