**A MAN EXPLODED WITH ANGER AFTER LOSING HIS WALLET WITH HIS 13TH-MONTH PAY INSIDE.
“THOSE LOITERERS ON THE STREET CORNER ARE ALL THIEVES!” HE SHOUTED.
HE WAS ABOUT TO REPORT THEM TO THE BARANGAY—
UNTIL SOMEONE KNOCKED ON HIS DOOR LATE AT NIGHT.**
It was Christmas Eve.
Mang Nestor’s breath came out in angry bursts.
He kept patting his pockets.
His wallet was gone.
Inside it was 30,000 pesos—his 13th-month pay and bonus, freshly withdrawn from the ATM.
“Damn it!” Nestor shouted, loud enough for the whole house to hear.
“I KNOW who took this! Those loiterers on the street corner!”
His wife was terrified.
“Hon, are you sure? Maybe you just left it at the office?”
“No!” Nestor barked.
“I passed by the corner earlier! That tattooed guy—Buknoy—bumped into me!
They must’ve pickpocketed me! Those addicts! Those freeloaders!”
Nestor hurriedly changed his clothes.
“I’m going to the barangay hall!
I’ll file a report! I’ll have them all arrested!
They can’t steal my family’s Christmas!”
His mind was overflowing with prejudice.
To him, anyone loitering, unemployed, and poorly dressed was automatically guilty.
Suddenly—
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Loud. Repeated.
“There they are!” Nestor grabbed a baseball bat.
“They still dare to show up?!”
When he opened the gate, he froze.
Standing in front of him was a man wearing a sleeveless shirt, his arms covered in tattoos, drenched in sweat.
Buknoy.
The very man he had accused.
“YOU!” Nestor shouted, raising the bat.
“Give me back my money, thief!”
Buknoy stepped back, panting, raising his hands.
“S-Sir! Please wait! Sir Nestor!”
From the pocket of his worn-out shorts, Buknoy pulled something out.
Nestor’s leather wallet.
Nestor went completely still.
“Sir…” Buknoy said, still catching his breath.
“You dropped this earlier when you got off the tricycle.
I tried to call you, but you were wearing headphones—you didn’t hear me.”
Nestor snatched the wallet and opened it.
His hands trembled as he counted the money.
One thousand…
Five thousand…
Ten thousand…
Everything was there.
The full 30,000 pesos.
The IDs.
The credit cards.
Nothing missing.
Nestor looked at Buknoy.
Only then did he notice how exhausted the man looked—
sweat dripping from his forehead,
and the broken sole of his slipper.
“Why… why did you only return it now?” Nestor asked gruffly, though his anger had faded.
“Well, sir…” Buknoy scratched his head.
“I didn’t have fare to get into your subdivision.
I walked all the way from the corner.
It was farther than I thought—and I got lost because it was already dark.”
Nestor fell silent.
The man he had called a thief had walked five kilometers, hungry and exhausted, just to return his money.
Suddenly—
GRRRRR…
Buknoy’s stomach growled.
Embarrassed, he held his belly.
“Alright, Sir Nestor, I’ll head home now.
I just really wanted to return this.
I saw your address on the ID—and I knew this was for your Noche Buena.”
Buknoy turned to leave.
That was when deep shame hit Nestor.
He stood there holding 30,000 pesos, while the man who returned it had nothing in his stomach.
“Buknoy! Wait!” Nestor called out.
Buknoy turned back.
“Why… why didn’t you take some?
Even just for food? Or fare?
I know you need it.”
Buknoy smiled—a quiet, dignified smile.
“Sir, I’m poor. I’m just a loiterer.
But my mother didn’t raise me to take what isn’t mine.
Rice tastes better when it comes from your own sweat,
not from someone else’s.”
Tears welled up in Nestor’s eyes.
He opened the gate wide.
“Come in, Buknoy,” he said softly.
“Don’t go home yet.
Have dinner with us. I’ll prepare food for you.”
That night, Nestor didn’t take Buknoy to the police station.
He brought him to the dining table.
And Nestor learned a lesson he would never forget:
The real thief is not always the person on the street—
but the prejudice that steals our trust in others.
From that day on, Buknoy became Nestor’s trusted caretaker in his business—
because Nestor learned that honesty cannot be bought with money.