Dad, I don’t know what to tell you, so I just dare to write it here. Maybe I won’t give it to you to read, but if one day you see this notebook, believe me. Every morning, when you are still busy at work, my stepmother wakes me up. I am thirsty, my throat is dry, but my mother never gives me anything to drink. She gives me a cup of milk, in which there is only a small spoon, thin as water. I drink it quickly but I am still not full.
After Dad asked: “Have you had breakfast?”, Mom immediately smiled: “He has eaten, I took care of everything.” Dad was comfortable, but I could only go to school on an empty stomach.
Dad, you know, if I dare to disobey, after breakfast, my mother will drag me to the room. The door was closed, within four cold walls, my mother slapped me one by one. Every time I cried, my mother said coldly: “Cry, let your father hear, that’s better. Let’s see if you choose me or your life.” I was scared, Dad. But something even more terrible happened after that…
Last night, my mother shouted: “You don’t deserve to have your own bed, you don’t deserve to have a blanket and a pillow.” Then my mother forced me to spread out a mat and lie down in the cold hallway. In the middle of the night, I was shivering from the wind, my stomach growling with hunger, while in the other room, my father and mother slept peacefully, unconscious.
Many times I wanted to run and hug my father, to tell him everything, but my mother’s fierce gaze paralyzed me. I was afraid that if I spoke, tomorrow would be even worse.
Dad, I miss my biological mother. I long for a full meal, a full glass of water, a warm hug. But it seems like those simple things are so far away …
If you ever read this, I hope you’ll believe me: I tried to be strong, but sometimes I feel like I can’t take it anymore.
— “Son, tell Dad”
On Monday morning, the school gate was hung with a red and white banner. The entire class was lined up in the yard, the national anthem playing. I stood in the last row, my stomach empty, my throat as dry as a desert. The smell of hot taho from the street vendor echoed through the fence, making me want to cry. I just wanted… a full glass of water.
As I shouted “Long live the Philippines!”, my eyes went dark. When I opened them, I saw Teacher Gemma bent over, her voice as warm as a bowl of morning porridge:
— Are you thirsty, my child? Drink.
The cold water flowed down my neck, I shivered with happiness. The teacher quietly helped me get up, calling me to the medical room. After a while, she asked softly:
— Is something wrong at home?
I bit my lip. That fierce look appeared in my mind, the threatening words “let’s see if you choose your father or your life”. I shook my head.
The teacher did not continue. She opened the drawer and gave me a small notebook with a green cover and a lily sticker:
— If you can’t speak yet, write it here. When you want, the adults can read it. Promise?
I nodded.
That afternoon, it was raining heavily in the southwest. I hugged the notebook and hid in the corner of the classroom, writing as if I was afraid the words would fly away: “Dad…” I wrote down everything that stuck to my throat. When I was finished, I put the notebook in the bottom of my bag, where the zipper was. On the way home, I hid under the awning of Aling Nena’s sari-sari store to keep it dry. She looked at me and sighed:
— Poor child, so thin. Did you drink a cup of ginger to warm your stomach?
I wanted to say “thank you”, but I was afraid I might get caught. I hurried through the rain, my sandals splashed in the mud.
That night, things got worse. The door to my room closed, the sound of the rain like thousands of fingers tapping on the corrugated iron roof. “Slap yourself.” I heard my voice echoing in my cheeks: pop… pop…. Every sound was a fear that added to his.
—Cry, let Dad hear. — he snored. — Let’s see who you choose.
I was silent. Finally, I was pushed into the
hallway. The cold food stuck to my back. I hugged my bag, hugged my notebook, my eyes widened, staring at the ceiling where the lizard was motionless like a curse.
The next morning, a small thing happened, and everything changed.
Before my father’s tricycle was turned off outside the gate, I tipped the water bottle, only a few drops left. I looked into the kitchen, where the clean water can was locked with a rusty rope. I heard my stepmother’s key make a “clack”.
—You’ve had enough. Drink this milk. — she handed me a glass of milk as thin as rice water. — Go to school quickly.
I hugged the mirror and walked out the door. At that moment, a cough from my father in the yard made my heart race. Without thinking, I put down the cup, ran to the balcony, bumped into my father, and said something so small I couldn’t believe I’d said it:
— Dad, I’m… thirsty.
Dad stopped. I saw a strange crease in his eyes, as if he had almost remembered something and then stopped. He went back into the house:
— Hon, where’s the water bottle? Why is it locked?
— Ah… Just to keep the neighbor’s kids from playing. — my stepmother laughed, as light as the wind — I’m worried about the baby. He already has milk.
Dad looked at the cup on the table: a thin layer of foam, white. Daddy was silent for a few seconds, his hand reaching for my bag. Dad slowly pulled the zipper – I thought it was an accident – but I saw Dad’s eyes reach for the notebook covered in blue. Dad took it out, and opened a page.
It was still raining last night on the paper, the words were stained with dark lines. But it was enough to see: “Dad… I’m scared…”.
The sound of the morning birds was no longer heard. The house seemed to be shrinking, only the sound of my heart and Dad’s breathing remained. Dad looked up, slowly as if he had swallowed the knife:
— Come into the living room. We need to talk. Now.
The conversation didn’t last long. At first Stepmother laughed, then blushed, and then screamed. She said I was lying, said I was rude. Daddy didn’t raise his voice. He just opened his phone, dialed Teacher Gemma’s number, which he had saved as “Gemma—Adviser G6”. After a few short sentences, Dad hung up, saying:
— Let’s go to the barangay hall. Kap Eddie and Teacher were there. I explained there.
Stepmother paused for a beat. Then she started crying, grabbing Dad’s t-shirt:
— Don’t take family matters outside! It’s embarrassing! I was just teaching him!
Dad removed his hand, finger by finger. His eyes looked at me, red as if he had just been drenched in the rain:
— Son, come with Dad.
The barangay hall at the end of the alley was like another world: white monoblocs lined up, ceiling fans spinning, the smell of 3-in-1 coffee filling the room. Kap Eddie – slightly potbellied, warm voice – leaned over and whispered:
— Don’t be afraid, son. Everyone here is on your side.
Teacher Gemma sat next to me, and squeezed my hand. Mrs. Aling Nena was there too; she said she had seen me lying in the hallway many times, and when I asked, I just smiled awkwardly. A watchman said that on rainy nights he could still see the lights of my house until nightfall.
The stepmother objected, saying that everyone “adds salt and pepper”. But the more they talked, the more cracks appeared. Kap asked about breakfast, asked about drinking water, asked why the bottle was locked. Dad didn’t bother. He simply placed the notebook with the green cover on the table and gently pushed it towards Kap.
The room was silent. Only the occasional rustle of paper could be heard as Kap turned the pages, and the sound of his son swallowing.
When he reached the last page, where he wrote: “If one day you read this… I tried to be strong. But sometimes I feel like I can’t take it anymore.”, Kap put down his pen and looked straight at his stepmother:
— Ma’am, children don’t write these lines to joke. Here we have regulations to protect children. For now, Sir Roldan will take him to his grandmother’s house or his biological mother’s house. We will file a report. Then the DSWD will come in to investigate.
The stepmother slumped in her chair, her face pale. Dad came to me and said three words that I will never forget for the rest of my life:
— Sorry, son.
That night, Dad and I stood in front of Mom’s house. The smell of warm ginger seemed to welcome us from the beginning of the alley. Mom opened the door, and when she saw me, she hugged me tightly, her shoulders shaking as if she hadn’t cried yet. My dad took a step back.
— I… Thank you for opening the door. — my father said, his voice hoarse. – I didn’t see what I needed to see.
Mom didn’t blame me at all. She just said:
— Come and eat. When children are hungry, they say this first, then blame me later.
A simple meal: white rice, chicken tinola, a plate of stir-fried banana hearts. Dad took a piece of thigh for me, and Mom gave me more soup. Spoon by spoon, my hungry stomach quieted, my heart also quieted. I looked up and saw my father looking at me the same way he used to, when I was a child, sitting in a jeep and my dad covered my head from the sun.
— Tomorrow, Dad will be resting. — my dad said. — I will work with the DSWD, at school, with Kap. From now on, no one will make me lie down in the hallway. No one will drain my water. No one will force me to choose between you and my life. That is not possible. (That is not acceptable.)
I couldn’t say anything. I just reached out and held Papa’s hand. Nana’s hand rested between the two of them, like a small bridge over the years of collapse.
A few days later, the second puong-pulong (meeting) took place in the barangay. My stepmother arrived, her face haggard. She apologized. She said she was traumatized by a deprived childhood, that she couldn’t control herself when she panicked. Kap noticed, but emphasized, “Sorry, the behavior doesn’t go away. Here, we put the child’s safety first.” The DSWD laid out a roadmap: psychological counseling for the entire family, regular monitoring, and a temporary protective order to keep me away from the person who scared me, until a specialist could confirm my safety.
My father agreed. Dad also admitted his mistake: he was so quick to speak that he was blind. “I thought a smile at dinner was enough,” he said, “sometimes a smile is a curtain.”
I looked at Dad and saw a man learning again how to be a Dad: learn to listen, learn to look deeply, learn to say “sorry” and “thank you.”
In the evening, Mom made a cocoa tablea and pushed the cup towards me:
— Drink, son. A little sweet to take away the bitterness.
I hugged the cup, the warm air hit my nose. Outside, tricycles were spinning, dogs were barking, neighbors were calling to buy pan de sal. Daily life passed by, but suddenly my heart felt light, as if someone had opened a secret door.
I took the notebook with the green cover and opened a new page. This time, I didn’t start with “Dad…” I was scared.” I wrote:
“Dad, I’m learning to speak out loud. I have Dad, I have Mom, I have people in the barangay and at school who are by my side. I won’t lie in the hallway anymore. I’ll lie down on my bed, under the mosquito net that Mom hung, drinking a full glass of water before I go to sleep.
If you ever read this one day, please believe me: I’m not just trying to be strong – I’m growing, with love for you, for mom, and for this whole little neighborhood.”
In the corner of the page, I drew three hands holding each other: one for Dad, one for Mom, and my little hand in the middle. Thank you, life – for teaching me that love is not about choosing sides, but standing together for what’s right.