Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he didn’t turn back. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
And the bus finally pulled away, leaving me alone on the side of the road.
I only carried an old bag and a few pieces of clothing. I sat on an old bench at the waiting shed as the late afternoon air grew colder. I didn’t know where to go. But I had one secret, something I had hidden for many years—a secret I didn’t want anyone to know, especially my son.
In my youth, before I met Mario, I worked as a house helper for a rich family in Manila—the De Veras. My mistress back then, Señora Teresa, was very kind to me. When she fell ill, I took care of her until her last breath.
Before she passed away, she called me and handed me an envelope. “Lina,” she said, “when the time comes that you have nowhere else to go, open this. But don’t use it as long as you can still manage.”
I kept it inside my small chest, and for 30 years, I never opened it. Until this evening.
When I found temporary accommodation in an old boarding house in town, I took out the envelope. The paper was slightly yellowed, but Señora Teresa’s handwriting was still clear.
“To the bearer of this: I, Teresa De Vera, am leaving a portion of my wealth to Lina D. Santos, in gratitude for her loyalty. Attached to this document is a land title and a bank account in her name.”
I could hardly believe it. My hands trembled as I opened the other envelope it contained—the title to a piece of land in San Pablo, Laguna.
My tears fell, not because of the wealth, but because of the kindness I never expected.
The next day, I went to the bank, carrying the document. The staff there assisted me, and eventually confirmed that there was indeed an account in my name—and inside it was an amount I could hardly spend in my lifetime.
I didn’t rush. I just bought a small house, and that’s where I lived. Every day, I cooked food and gave it to the street children outside. With every smile they gave, the pain of being rejected by my own son seemed to lessen.
But one day, while I was feeding the children, a man arrived. It was Carlo. Dirty, thin, and seemingly haggard with hunger.
“Ma…” he whispered faintly, “I’m so sorry.”
I was silent for a moment. “Why are you here?”
“I lost my job, Liza left me. I have nowhere to live.”
I stared at him—my son who had once cast me out—now bowing his head, full of regret. The old ache seemed to return to my chest, but pity was stronger than anger.
I walked closer, took his hand, and gently said, “A mother, no matter how many times you push her away, will always remain a mother. Come, son. Have something to eat first.”
And for the first time in many years, we ate together. Quietly, but peacefully.
A few months later, I taught him how to run a small business—an eatery (karinderya) we opened in front of the house. He slowly changed; he learned to be humble, to be grateful, and above all, to love again.
One afternoon, while I was arranging flowers in front of the house, Carlo approached me. “Ma,” he said, “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
I smiled, patting his hand. “You don’t need to repay love, son. What’s important is that you learned to come back.”
As I watched him help the children eating at the eatery, I smiled. I was no longer angry. I was no longer sad.
Because sometimes, the hearts that have been hurt are the same hearts capable of forgiveness—and in the end, that is the true wealth.