I CUT OFF ALL THE FINANCIAL SUPPORT AND TOOK BACK THE CAR I GAVE THEM.
BUT WHAT HAPPENED NEXT IS A REGRET I WILL CARRY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.**
I was adopted from an orphanage when I was three years old.
My adoptive parents loved me deeply—
until they finally had a biological son.
From that day on, I slowly became invisible.
I turned into an unpaid helper in my own home:
cooking, washing dishes, doing laundry, babysitting, cleaning—everything.
I endured it all, telling myself:
“I’m just an adopted child.
Having a roof over my head is already a blessing.”
I studied hard, started working early, and eventually earned a stable income.
Every month, I sent my adoptive parents ₱50,000 pesos.
I even bought them a second-hand car—
registered under my name—
so they wouldn’t struggle commuting.
But the year I got married…
There was no congratulatory message.
No phone call.
No excitement.
Finally, my adoptive mother sent a short, cold text:
“Just focus on your wedding.
We’re busy taking care of Tino.
We can’t come.”
My heart felt like it was being crushed.
After 25 years in their home…
I was still just an outsider.
On the way to the church, sitting inside the bridal car, my makeup perfect but tears streaming down my face, I told the driver:
“Please stop at the bank.”
Everyone panicked.
They thought I was emotionally unstable.
That I wanted to cancel the wedding.
But I said calmly:
“I need to cut off their financial support.
Right now.”
At the bank, I quietly signed the documents to cancel all recurring transfers.
Then I called the garage and asked them to retrieve the car—
the one I had bought and registered under my name.
I told myself:
“If they don’t see me as their daughter,
why should I keep seeing them as my parents?”
I returned to the bridal car, lifted my chin, and felt… relieved.
But I had no idea…
Two hours later, my phone rang.
It was our neighbor.
His voice was trembling:
“Where are you right now?
Your adoptive mother collapsed at the public market.
They rushed her to the hospital.
She’s in critical condition…”
I froze.
I ran to the hospital in my white wedding gown, crying as I ran.
The doctor said:
“She suffered a stroke.
But what concerns us is that she was severely exhausted—
dehydrated, dangerously low blood sugar.”
“We found out she had been staying up all night,
making dozens of batches of rice cakes to sell.
She was saving money…”
“For her daughter’s wedding.”
I stared at him in shock.
I whispered:
“Her… daughter?
Who was she making it for?”
The doctor replied softly:
“The name written in her pocket…
is yours.”
My hands shook as I opened the plastic bag the hospital had taken from her belongings.
Inside were:
An old envelope with ₱2,000 pesos
A handwritten list:
“New pots for my daughter”
“Small gold ring”
“Mother-of-the-bride dress”
And a crumpled piece of paper, written in shaky handwriting:
“My daughter is getting married.
I have nothing valuable.
I wanted to come, but I’m ashamed because I don’t have a gift.
Let me finish a few more batches…”
My heart felt like it was being crushed.
Only then did I learn the truth.
Since the birth of my younger brother, my adoptive mother had received no financial support from her husband.
She quit farming and took on every odd job she could find.
The “coldness” I thought was indifference…
was actually exhaustion and shame—
of a poor mother who felt she had nothing worthy to give her daughter.
I collapsed beside her hospital bed, sobbing:
“Mom… I was wrong.
I was so wrong…”
And the deepest regret of my life is this:
She never woke up.
She passed away just hours after I had signed the papers cutting off the allowance—
and after I had ordered the retrieval of the car she used every dawn to deliver rice cakes.
After the funeral, I unlocked her phone.
In the draft messages, there was one unfinished text:
“My daughter, I didn’t give birth to you…
but you are the child I loved the most.”
I read it while choking on my sobs, unable to breathe.