He was about to throw the box away when Aling Choleng suddenly stood up and grabbed his arm. She was crying.
“Please… don’t!” she begged.
“This is spoiled food!” Rico shouted.
She looked at him—her eyes filled with worry, not for herself, but for someone else.
“That’s for Rico,” she said through her tears.
Rico froze.
“What?”
“That’s for my son,” the old woman explained, carefully picking up the chicken. “He’s coming home from school. He has no lunch money. He’s so thin. He must be starving when he gets home.”
She stroked the wrapped food gently.
“We don’t have money… so I save this. When Rico arrives, he’ll have something to eat. I love my son so much. I don’t want him to be hungry.”
Rico’s shoulders collapsed.
What he thought was greed and theft… was love.
In Aling Choleng’s mind, she had returned to the time when Rico was still a child—when they were poor, when there was barely food, and when a mother waited every day for her son to come home from school.
She never ate the food she took from the fridge.
She endured hunger so she could give it to her child.
Rico’s vision blurred with tears. He fell to his knees and hugged his mother’s legs.
“Mom… I’m here. I’m Rico…”
She held his face. For a moment, her eyes cleared.
“Rico?” she whispered. “Have you eaten yet, my child? Here… I saved chicken for you.”
Rico took the chicken—not to throw it away, but to accept the love that had never disappeared.
“Thank you, Mom… thank you.”
He didn’t throw away the hidden food. Instead, he lay beside his mother as she slept, holding her, and promised himself he would never again scold the woman whose only fault was loving him too much.
The Next Morning
Aling Choleng woke up smiling. She didn’t know what day it was, but she knew she had a child she loved deeply.
And Rico, before leaving for work, placed a small lunchbox beside her bed—filled with warm food and a note:“I will never be hungry again, Mom.
I’ll take care of you now.”
Things That Don’t Need to Be Remembered
Three years had passed since the night the shoebox under the bed was discovered.
The house was the same—small, old, with peeling paint. But everything had slowed down. No more late-night shouting. No more careless anger.
Rico was now 38.
He had switched to a daytime shift. The pay was lower, but in return, he gained time—something he never valued until it was almost gone.
Aling Choleng was now 78.
Alzheimer’s does not stop for love. Dementia shows no mercy. Her memory had slipped beyond Rico’s past—she no longer knew her own name, nor recognized the house she lived in.
Some days, she didn’t speak at all.
Some days, she called Rico:
“Mom”
“Older sister”
Or a name that never existed
But one thing never changed.
The Nightly Habit
Every night—around two in the morning—Rico still heard a faint sound from the kitchen.
Rustle…
He would wake up.
No irritation.
No anger.
He would put on a jacket and walk out.
And every time, Aling Choleng stood in front of the refrigerator, holding a food container Rico had prepared in advance: soft rice, stewed vegetables, shredded fish.
She looked around as if afraid of being caught.
Rico said nothing.
He simply opened the drawer, took out an old plastic container—the new version of the shoebox—and placed it in her hands.
“Here, Mom,” he whispered. “I already prepared it.”
She smiled and nodded.
No questions.
No confusion.
And she always whispered the same words, even with an empty memory:
“For Rico…”
The Day She No Longer Recognized Him
One rainy afternoon, while Rico was wiping her down, she suddenly stared at him for a long time—her eyes hollow.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The question was soft as air, but it pierced straight through his heart.
Rico froze.
“I’m Rico, Mom,” he replied, forcing a smile.
She shook her head.
“My Rico… is still very young.”
Rico turned away, pretending to grab a towel.
For the first time in years, he cried silently.
Not because she forgot him—
But because she remembered him as a child, untouched by hardship.
The Final Night
That night, Rico stayed awake.
Aling Choleng’s breathing was shallow. Her thin hand clutched his shirt, as if letting go meant losing everything.
Near dawn, she opened her eyes.
Slowly.
Clearly.
“Rico…” she called.
He startled.
“Mom?”
She looked at him—one last time—with the eyes of the mother he once knew.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
Rico’s tears fell onto her hand.
“Yes, Mom. I’ve eaten. I’m full.”
She smiled.
“That’s good…”
Her hand loosened gently.
Aling Choleng passed away quietly—without pain, without fear—like someone who had finally finished a duty she had been carrying for a lifetime.
The Old Box
After the funeral, while cleaning the room, Rico found the plastic box under the bed.
Inside was no food.
Only:
An old handkerchief
A crumpled piece of paper with shaky handwriting
“For Rico.
So he won’t be hungry.”
Rico sat on the floor.
He didn’t cry out loud.
He simply hugged the box to his chest.
Things That Don’t Need to Be Remembered
Years later, Rico volunteered at a care center for elderly people with dementia.
Whenever he saw an old woman hiding bread in her pocket, he didn’t stop her.
He would gently ask:
“Who is that for?”
And almost every time, the answer was the same:
“For my child.”
Rico would smile.
Because he understood—
Some things, even when memory disappears,
even when time erases names,
a mother’s love will always find its way back.