I threw the old school bag on the floor, looking at the 12-year-old boy with cold eyes.
“Go away. You are not my son. My husband is dead, I have no obligation to raise you anymore. Go wherever you want.”
He didn’t cry. He just lowered his head, gently picked up the torn school bag, turned around and didn’t say a word of begging.
Ten years later, when the truth was revealed, I just wished I could turn back time.
My name is Marco, I was 36 years old when my wife – Maya – passed away after a stroke. She passed away very suddenly, leaving me and a 12-year-old boy – Paolo. But Paolo was not my biological son… or so I thought. I married Maya when she was 26 – a woman who had experienced an unnamed love affair and was pregnant alone.
At that time, I loved her. I admired her strength as a single mother, I even accepted a child who was not mine. But love cannot last if it does not come from the heart. I raised Paolo out of obligation, nothing else.
Everything fell apart when Maya died. No one stopped me from being close to her. Paolo was quiet, closed, respectful but distant – perhaps he felt: I did not truly love him.
Just a month after the funeral, in a small rented house in Quezon City, I said those words to him.
“Get out of the house. Whether you live or die is your business.”
I thought she would cry, would beg. But no. She just left. And I – without any regrets.
I sold my belongings, moved to Makati, started a business, then met another woman – without children. For the first few years, I still thought about Paolo from time to time – not out of worry but out of curiosity: where is he? How is he living?
Then time killed all curiosity. Where does a 12-year-old go – no family, no relatives? I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. I thought: if he dies, maybe he’ll be out of debt.
Until one day, exactly ten years later.
I received a call from an unknown number:
“Hello, Marco? This Saturday, can you come to the opening of JPR Studio on Jupiter Street, Bel-Air, Makati? There’s someone there who really likes you.”
I was about to hang up. But the next sentence stopped me:
“Don’t you want to know about Paolo?” … It felt like my heart was being squeezed. Paolo? I hadn’t heard that name in ten years. I was silent for a few seconds, and then said briefly:
“I’ll be there.”
The opening was tight. The space was modern, the warm yellow light on the cold and sad oil paintings. On the wall was the author’s name: JPR. Those three letters repeated themselves like a piece of glass.
“Hello, Marco.”
A young man, tall and thin, dressed in simple clothes but with deep-set eyes stood before me.
Pablo.
He was no longer the thin boy I had driven away. He was an old man, mature. Familiar but distant.
“You…” – I sighed – “Why are you…”
Paolo interrupted, gently but sharply:
“I just want you to see what my mother left behind. And… what you left behind.”
He led me to a painting covered in red cloth.
“It’s called Inay (Mom). I haven’t published it yet. Now, just for you, I want you to see it.”
I removed the blanket.
In front of me was a woman lying on a hospital bed, her face worried, holding a photo of the three of us – the only time Maya, Paolo, and I had ever been out in Rizal Park.
I collapsed.
Paolo said in a monotone voice:
“Before she died, my mother left a diary. She knew you didn’t love me. But she still believed that one day you would understand. Because… I’m not another man’s child. I’m your child.”
I stopped.
“What…?”
“Yes. My mother didn’t dare to say it, afraid of disrupting our stable life. She brought me before the wedding, saying I was her illegitimate child to test your heart. Later, when she wanted to say it, it was too late. I found out when I found the diary in the attic of the old house in Tondo.”
Everything collapsed. I kicked my own son out of the house. Now he stood before me – calm, full of accomplishments – and I, empty.
I had lost my son twice. The second time, forever.
I sat quietly in the corner of the gallery, my mind crying. Paolo’s words still echoed like a knife cutting through my conscience.
“You are my son.”
“Mommy is afraid that if she says that, she will lose you.”
“She doesn’t want you to stay because of the responsibility.”
I used to think I was being nice when I “accepted” my wife’s illegitimate child. The truth is: I wasn’t tolerant enough. I always looked at Paolo differently – distant, reluctant. And when Maya died, I threw him away like someone would throw away garbage.
Unexpectedly, that piece of garbage was my own flesh and blood.
I tried to say something – but Paolo turned away.
I ran to him, my voice trembling:
“Paolo… wait… If… if uncle – no – Dad… If Dad knew I was related by blood, things would be different…”
He turned away, his eyes calm and distant:
“I didn’t come here to hear excuses or to be accepted back. I just want you to know… Mom didn’t lie to anyone. She chose to stay silent because she loved you. And you… chose to let go because you were afraid of being tied down.”
I stopped. I couldn’t argue.
“I don’t hate you. If you hadn’t thrown me out, I probably wouldn’t have had the determination to get up like I do now.”
Paolo handed me an envelope. Inside was a copy of Maya’s diary, the trembling lines she had written in her last days.
“If one day I’m no longer here, and you see these lines… forgive me. I hid this from you because I was afraid – afraid that you would only love me out of responsibility. But Paolo is our son. The day I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to tell you. But looking at you – still hesitant at that time – I didn’t dare… I thought, as long as you loved Paolo like a real father, then blood relationship or not doesn’t matter.”
I cried. Not loudly. I just saw everything fall apart. I failed to fulfill my responsibilities as a husband, as a father… and now, I’ve lost everything.
I tried to fix it – but it wasn’t easy.
In the following days, I went to Paolo. Texted him, waited for hours at JPR Studio, not to apologize to him – but just to do something for him.
But Paolo was no longer the boy who needed me.
One day, he came to me. His face was no longer as cold as it had been at the beginning, but full of determination:
“You don’t have to fix it. I’m not mad at you. But… I don’t need Dad. Because Dad once chose not to need me.”
I nodded. Because that was right.
I got a savings account – all the money I had. I planned to leave it to the new girl; knowing the truth, I ended it the next day. I said:
“Dad can’t bring back the past. But if you let him… Dad will stand by, silently supporting everything you do. No title, no pressure. Just knowing that you are healthy, that you are living well… is enough.”
Paolo looked at me for a long time, then said:
“I will accept – not for the money. But for Mom. Mom once believed that you could be a good person.”
Time – the only thing that cannot be returned.
I could no longer be called “Dad.” But I still followed Paolo’s every step: quietly contributing anonymous capital, introducing old connections to the business community in BGC and Makati to develop JPR Studio.
I never got my son back. But I never lost him again.
Every year, on the anniversary of Maya’s death, I go to Quiapo Church to light a candle. In front of my wife’s picture, I tearfully whispered:
“I’m sorry… I was too selfish. I’ll spend the rest of my life fixing this.”
The ending – light after loss
When Paolo turned 22, he was invited to an international exhibition. On his personal page, he wrote a short line:
“For Inday. You did it.”
The end – light after the loss
When Paolo turned 22, he was invited to an international exhibition. On his personal page, he wrote a short line:
“For Inday. You did it.”
For the first time in 10 years, he sent me a private message:
“If Dad has time … Next Saturday is tomorrow.”
I was speechless.
The words “Dad” – simple – but it was the end of years of pain, and also the beginning of a new beginning: a father’s love, even if it was too late.
The final message of the story:
There are mistakes that cannot be corrected. But sincere regret still touches the heart. Happiness does not come from perfection, but from the courage to face and fix things that seem irreparable.