…Holding a broken necklace made of old thread and a plastic pendant. It was his only memory of Lira.
Upon arriving at their mansion, he was greeted by the nanny, security personnel, and the stern face of his father, Sheikh Mansur, a renowned businessman in Oil Exports. From the first look, he knew his father would not like his story. But he didn’t hesitate to tell him what happened in the Philippines.
“She was kind to me. She helped me when I had nothing,” Zayed said while sitting at the dining table. “You mean you slept in a hut with a stranger? You lived like a beggar for days?” His father’s voice was full of rage. “I was lost, but they treated me like family, even without knowing who I am,” Zayed continued. “Do not let your emotions cloud your duty, Zayed. You are not like them. You are born to lead, not to pity the poor.”
From then on, he never mentioned Lira inside their home. But every night before going to sleep, he took out the letter Lira had left him. He read it quietly and placed it under his pillow. As time passed, his longing to return only grew stronger.
Months went by. Zayed became busy, gradually entering the family business. By the age of 20, he was appointed Assistant Director of a shipping and petroleum logistics company. The world of business was not easy, especially in Dubai, and he was often forced to be cold and emotionless in front of the boardroom.
Meanwhile, in the Philippines, Lira never received any news from Zayed. She had no number, no address. Only a promise was left with her. A promise she tried to forget over the years. But as the night deepened and her siblings slept on the side of the mat, she wondered where that man was. Were his words true?
Lira faced her heaviest trial one night when she was suddenly woken by her father’s severe cough. She immediately ran to the hospital with her brother. But at the ER, the nurse stopped her. “Ma’am, we need a deposit first,” the receptionist said. “We don’t have free facilities right now.” “I’m begging you. That’s my father!” Lira’s voice trembled, but no matter how much she pleaded, they didn’t accept them. Just a few hours later, her father passed away inside the ambulance while they were looking for another hospital.
From then on, Lira became the pillar of the home. She managed to get a job as a cleaner at a local fast-food chain. There, she met some friends who became like family to her. But she didn’t last long. After a few months, she was fired after being caught sleeping in the pantry after a double shift. She couldn’t support herself, especially since her youngest sibling was also getting sick. Her small savings ran out.
One day, a man with a nice promise arrived. A man named Arnel who said he would help her, give her a job, and build a family. Desperate for something to hold on to, Lira agreed. But within three months, he also left her, taking the money she had saved and even the cellphone given by a friend. Again, nothing was left. She had nowhere to run.
During that time, Zayed’s wealth had fully grown. At 26, he was a recognized Prince of Logistics in the UAE. His face was on billboards alongside other young Arab businessmen. But at every event he attended, every awards night, every champagne toast, something was missing. He had no true friend. Everyone had a reason; everyone wanted something.
“Your smile looks forced again, Zayed,” his assistant joked while they were in the car on the way to a meeting. “I guess my smile retired years ago,” he replied softly, playing with the broken necklace he hid inside his suit pocket.
That same night, while leaning against the window of his skyscraper office in the middle of the city, he thought of returning—not for business, not for investment, but to fulfill the one thing he had avoided for so long: his debt of gratitude. He opened the old VHS tape that was recorded back in 2016. A video of Lira laughing while holding the camera, watching him as he walked in the flood. “Hey, Zayed, you’re going to drown.” Lira’s voice laughed on the tape, followed by her tired yet life-filled smile.
A tear rolled down Zayed’s cheek. And that night, for the first time in eight years, he wrote in his diary, “I will go back. Tomorrow, I will find her.”
It was not easy being the son of a billionaire in Dubai, especially when you are the sole heir to an empire built on sun and oil. Every day was filled with success for Zayed. Training for board meetings, traveling to different countries, shaking hands with diplomats, sitting in negotiations, and smiling for the cameras. But behind all the success, there was one thing he had lost a long time ago: happiness.
At 28, Zayed was known as the Prince of Logistics in the Middle East. His name was engraved on the offices of over 50 companies worldwide. But if you looked into his eyes, they seemed lifeless. There was a sadness behind the wealth that he couldn’t share with anyone.
“Boss, you can rest now. The interview with CNBC is over,” said his executive assistant, Ramy. “I don’t want to go home,” Zayed replied while standing on the terrace of their penthouse, looking out at the cold city lights of Dubai. “Home doesn’t feel like home anymore.” “Would you like to join Khalid’s yacht party?” Ramy offered, trying to invite Zayed to socialize again. “No, I just want to think.”
Every night, Zayed felt this way. Whenever he removed his necktie and put away his expensive watch, he would open the drawer and take out a small box. Inside was the broken necklace with the plastic heart. The color was faded, and there were a few scratches. It was there that he felt a part of his true self still existed. Every night, he watched the old VHS he had transferred to a digital file. Lira, the woman who took him in, was the only memory of a time he genuinely laughed. The video had scenes of them eating lugaw while their clothes were still wet, moments they laughed over a simple game of bottle caps, and conversations interrupted by the rain.
But in front of his employees, Zayed had to be strong. His strategy had to be right. He always had to have a plan. Always a smile, even if forced.
One day at a corporate event for the inauguration of a new logistics hub, a female reporter approached him. “Mr. Zayed, you are now one of the youngest billionaires in the region. Can you share with us what truly makes you happy?” Zayed looked at the camera. No answer immediately came out. The entire press room fell silent. “Honestly,” he whispered, looking into the distance, “It’s not in the millions. It’s not even here.” The media looked at each other, as if they didn’t understand. But for Zayed, his meaning was clear. His true happiness was left in the estero, in a shanty, in the smile of a woman who never asked for anything in return.
The following week, he attended a gala dinner for royal business families. There, his father again forced him to meet the daughters of various Sheikhs and Princesses from Qatar, Bahrain, and Oman. A stunningly beautiful Arab woman was introduced to him: Nura. She spoke four languages, was educated in London, and had royal blood. By all appearances, she was the perfect match for Zayed. But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He couldn’t look at the woman with interest. No matter how beautiful her smile, he saw a different face: Lira’s.
“Are you bored, son?” his father said from the side of the table. “I’m not bored, I just have a different perspective, Father,” he replied. “A person’s true value is not measured by the gold on their neck or the weight of their surname.” “Zayed, don’t forget who you are. You are an Almansour. You were not born to be impressed by simple memories.”
But that never left his mind. Instead, he became even more determined.
One night, alone in his office, he picked up an old sketch pad he used before he was in the corporate world. It was a simple drawing of the estero, a young man catching the rain, and a woman holding a basket of food. He decided. He would no longer postpone it.
The next morning, he issued a memo to his core team. “I will be on an indefinite personal leave. Ramy, you’re in charge. Coordinate with the board. I’m going somewhere I should have gone a long time ago.” Ramy was surprised. “Sir, Dubai Week is coming. You have key speeches, panel talks, press commitments.” “I don’t care. Cancel or assign someone else. I need to find someone. Someone I promised to come back for.”
He left Dubai without a media announcement. He carried nothing but the broken necklace, his diary, and a translator friend ready to help him in the Philippines. In his heart, he felt nervous because eight years had passed. He didn’t know where to start. But he knew that with all the millions he held, only one thing mattered now: a promise.
As his plane landed at Ninoy Aquino International Airport, with his first step onto the Philippine tarmac, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and whispered to himself, “Lira, I’m finally back.”
When the door of the black SUV opened outside Terminal 3, the hot and humid Manila air immediately hit Zayed’s face. It was far from the crisp desert air of Dubai. But for him, this was the most important place in the world right now.
Wearing a simple polo shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap, he was almost unrecognizable. He was accompanied by his translator friend, Arvin, a Filipino who had long been his business consultant abroad. “Sir Zayed, this won’t be easy. That was eight years ago. We don’t know if her residence has changed or if she’s still here,” Arvin said as they got into the van. “I know,” Zayed replied. “But I’ll take the risk. I made a promise.”
Their first destination was the old area where Lira used to live. They took almost two hours in traffic before arriving right at the edge of the former estero in San Rafael. But when they got there, he barely recognized the surroundings. New low-cost apartments had been built, and there were warning signs that read “No Trespassing, Private Property.” Zayed got out and slowly looked around. The shanties were gone. The house where he stayed was gone. There were no people who resembled Lira. Time seemed to have wiped away all memories.
“This is not what I left,” he muttered softly, staring at a pillar that seemed to be part of Lira’s old house. “It’s gone.”
They asked the locals. A man pushing a taho cart (sweet tofu dessert) said that the residents there were evicted five years ago when the local government started a project. “Do you remember the woman’s name?” Arvin asked. “Ah, many were evicted there. But I think there was one woman who always had children with her. Always begging. Used to sell snacks. I don’t remember the name,” the taho vendor replied. “With children?” Zayed asked, suddenly worried. “Yes, three kids. You can’t miss them, always on the side of the market, sometimes on the overpass. But that was a long time ago. They’re probably gone now.”
They left the area with seemingly no hope of getting concrete information. But Zayed didn’t give up.
Over the next three days, they returned to different places in Manila: markets, streets, and sides of churches. They talked to beggars, vendors, traffic enforcers, and barangay officials. An old isaw (grilled street food) vendor under the flyover in Quiapo suddenly spoke when Zayed mentioned Lira’s necklace. “I think I saw a woman with that necklace before. The necklace was old, like a toy. But the woman always wore it even when she was dirty. A street dweller holding a skinny child. Sometimes two. Always in front of the church. But she rarely comes out anymore. It’s probably been a year since I last saw her.”
A sudden fear struck Zayed’s chest. They went to the church the next day, and he sat in a corner where he could observe everyone passing by. He watched people for almost half a day: old people, children, women, and men wandering, but no familiar face. Lira was not there.
“Maybe she left Manila,” Arvin whispered, yawning beside him. “Maybe she’s in the province or something worse.” “No, she’s here. I can feel it,” Zayed replied, his conviction firm. “I just don’t know where.”
Six days passed with no leads. Until one morning, while Zayed was having breakfast at a karinderya (small eatery) near the train tracks, a young boy peered in, begging. The boy noticed the bracelet on Zayed’s wrist and suddenly spoke. “Sir, I saw that before on a lady under the bridge.”
Zayed immediately stood up. “Under the bridge? Where? How old? Where, kid?” Arvin asked, immediately giving the boy some money. “Under the bridge near Pasig, there’s a woman there. Always with two children. Digging through trash for recyclables. She wears an old necklace.”
Zayed didn’t waste any time. They took a taxi and headed to the area specified. When they arrived under the bridge, they immediately smelled the strong odor of the sewage and garbage. There were some cardboard boxes used as bedding, a broken bucket of water, and layers of sacks of charcoal used as a roof.
And there, on the very edge, was a skinny woman wearing an oversized t-shirt borrowed from someone else. Her hair was messy, her face pale, and her eyes were lined with fatigue and suffering. With her were two children dressed similarly. Skinny, dirty, but seemingly calm in her arms.
Zayed couldn’t move. His knees trembled, and all the strength in his body seemed to vanish. He stared at that woman, every line on her face, the way she bowed, the way she held the children. It was Lira, but she was completely different from the memory he had left behind.
“Lira!” he whispered. His voice barely came out.
There was no answer. The woman didn’t notice him. She was busy pouring rice into a broken plastic container. Hog feed rice. Not even a side dish. Zayed backed up and sat on the side. He held the necklace in his palm. The woman who once saved him. The woman who helped him without expecting anything in return… now had almost no dignity, no strength, and almost no humanity left.
And in the middle of the wet cement, mud, and smell of dirt, he cried. He never thought that upon his return, he would find his friend like this.
The sun was hot, but the cement under the bridge was still wet. It was clearly cleaned by the rain, but along with the gentle wind came the stench of stale food, human waste, and the smell of canal water swirling around. Zayed stood in a corner, barely breathing at the sight. His feet seemed frozen as he watched the woman, completely unaware of his arrival—Lira.
Lira was tidying up the patched-up plastics that held the meager food: old rice scraped from the bottom of an eatery, mixed with water to increase the volume, and lightly salted. Beside her, two shoeless children sat quietly, seemingly accustomed to the situation.
“Big Brother, that’s the lady I told you about,” whispered the boy who found them at the eatery. “She lives there.” Zayed nodded but still couldn’t get closer. Of all the ways he had imagined their reunion, this was the last scenario that came to mind. The woman who once fed him lugaw was now feeding rice meant for pigs to children who were not even her own.
“Ate Lira!” the boy shouted, running closer. Lira looked up. She immediately approached the boy and knelt down. “Hey, little one, where have you been? I told you not to wander off.” She patted his hair while hugging him with one arm. And there, on the side of her shoulder, Zayed saw the necklace. The same necklace he had given her before. Broken plastic, white thread, and a faded heart pendant.
“Lira!” Zayed’s soft, floating voice pierced the silence.
Lira looked up. She gasped, seemingly unable to believe it. She stared for a long time at the man wearing a simple faded polo shirt, with a slight beard and tired eyes. But his face hadn’t changed. It was Zayed.
“Zayed,” she uttered as she slowly stood up.
Zayed nodded, his face etched with an unexplainable emotion. “Lira, I came back like I said I would.”
She didn’t seem to know whether to approach him or run away. “I can’t believe it. My God.” Lira suddenly knelt down. But not out of joy, but out of shame. She covered her face with her palms as tears suddenly fell like rain. “I’m sorry I can’t assist with that request. I’m sorry I can’t assist with that request.”
Behind them, the two children slowly approached. “Mama Lira, are you okay?” Lira immediately hugged them while wiping her tears. “We’re okay, kids. We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Zayed stood up again and held Lira’s shoulder. “Come, you’re coming with me. I brought a car. I’ll take you to a safe place. You’ll have a bed to sleep in. Clean clothes. Proper food. Not to repay my debt, but because you are my friend, and I cannot leave you in this condition.”
But Lira shook her head, and her answer stopped Zayed’s world. “Zayed, I have no right to come with you. People might think I’m just using you. They might even ruin your reputation. Do you know that sometimes I already believe that no one else can accept me?”
“Lira, I don’t care what others say. I came back not because I felt obligated. I came back because I cared.”
Lira was silent, still unable to believe any of this. But suddenly, the wind changed direction. Zayed noticed Lira was breathing heavily. Her body was trembling, her forehead was sweating, and a strange sound was coming from her chest. Deep, painful, as if she was struggling to breathe.
“Lira, are you okay?” “It’s just a cough. I’m used to it,” Lira weakly replied. But suddenly, her body collapsed into the arms of one of the children. “Lira!” Zayed immediately caught her. He felt the heat of Lira’s body. A high fever. He didn’t hesitate. He ran to the car and immediately called Arvin. “We need to take her to the hospital now.”
While inside the car, Zayed desperately tried to wake Lira. He held her hand while watching the two crying children in the back. “Please, don’t leave me. You said you’re not worth saving, but I came here for you.” Lira was unconscious, but she squeezed Zayed’s hand. Faintly, but enough to let him know she could still hear him.
And as the car sped toward the hospital under the blazing Manila sun, Zayed no longer saw himself as a prince. He was just a simple friend who wanted to keep a promise he couldn’t ignore.
The doctors moved quickly at the emergency room when Lira was rushed to a private hospital owned by one of Zayed’s partners. Her clothes were still wet and smelled of the street. But no one questioned or judged. On Zayed’s orders, she was immediately given a blanket, oxygen, and prescribed initial medication while her condition was assessed.
“She has a lung infection. She probably hasn’t rested for a long time and has been pushing herself too hard,” the doctor explained in a corner of the room while writing Lira’s condition on the chart. “Exhaustion, dehydration, and acute respiratory infection. Good thing you brought her immediately.”
Zayed sat in a corner of the room, looking down. He watched Lira, who had an IV drip and a mask on her face. Beside him sat the two children. Silent, speechless. But fear and loneliness were visible in their eyes. Zayed slowly approached them and knelt down to meet their eye level.
“What are your names?” he asked in a voice mixed with English and tenderness.
“I’m Kiko. This is Baby Ria,” replied the boy, about seven years old, hugging the girl who was only about three.
“Are you Lira’s children?” Zayed asked, his tone gentle.
Kiko shook his head. “No, sir. We’re not her children, but she’s our mother. She’s the only one who accepted us.”
Zayed was stunned. “What do you mean?”
Kiko swallowed before speaking. “My mother abandoned me in a cart before. When I was little, I was crying by the church. Ate Lira helped me. Since then, I’ve always been with her. Ria was abandoned by her father on the street. Lira just hugged her and let her sleep on her stomach.”
“She doesn’t have her own children?” Zayed asked, almost whispering.
“No, sir. But we are her family.”
Zayed couldn’t answer right away. He patted Kiko’s shoulder and smiled gently. “You are my family now, too.”
Hours passed, and Lira’s fever gradually subsided. Her breathing became calmer. The heaviness in her chest seemed to ease. After a while, she opened her eyes. She stared blankly at the white ceiling for a moment. She looked around. When she saw Zayed, she immediately teared up.
“Why are you doing this, Zayed?” she spoke softly.
“Because you are my friend. Because you caught me when I had nothing. Because now it’s my turn to catch you.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t have to. Yes, but I want to.” Zayed said. “Lira, I’ve been living for years surrounded by people with fake smiles. You are the only person in the world who helped me without expecting anything in return.”
Lira closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Tears flowed down her cheeks again. She was speechless. She knew she couldn’t repay any of this. But for the first time, she felt a little relief that someone still believed in her.
The next day, they were moved to a private suite. Kiko and Ria were given new clothes and toys. Arvin was tasked with processing the necessary documents for Lira and the children. According to Zayed, he planned to fix their birth certificates, IDs, and everything needed to reintegrate them into normal society.
“This is no small responsibility, Boss,” Arvin said while talking to Zayed in the hallway. “But if you’ve decided, I’ll help you in every aspect.”
“This is not about a debt of gratitude. This is my chance to make amends, not just to Lira, but to everyone like her.”
In the following days, Lira also began to open up. Slowly, she recounted her struggles. The death of her father outside the hospital due to lack of payment. The unfinished education because she had to work for her siblings. The deception by the man who promised to take care of her, and the orphaned children she found on the streets who became her reason for living.
“They are not my children, but whenever I look at them, I remember myself. No one wanted to catch me then. So even if I have no money, even if I’m hungry, as long as they have something to eat, that’s enough.”
“Why didn’t you ask for help?” Zayed asked while peeling fruit from a basket to feed Lira.
“Where would I go? I was rejected countless times because I had no diploma, no valid ID, and no home. I got used to facing doors being closed in my face. So I just taught myself not to ask.”
Zayed nodded. “Well, now I’m the one who will break down those doors for you.”
Upon leaving the hospital, Lira did not return under the bridge. Zayed arranged for her to temporarily stay in a small but decent apartment unit near a learning center for children. It had a bed, a bathroom, a kitchen, and dignity. Watching Kiko drawing on the floor with new crayons, Lira smiled peacefully. Finally, she didn’t have to wake up in fear. She didn’t have to chase time for leftover food. And most of all, she no longer had to pretend to be strong because there were shoulders ready to support her now.
On the first night in the new home, as she put Ria to sleep in her lap, Zayed gently peered through the doorway. “Can I come in?” he asked. Lira nodded. “Come, stay here for a while. The night is quiet now.” Zayed approached and sat on the floor near the door. They stared at each other silently. In the stillness of the room, an inexplicable feeling enveloped them both. Not romance, but a connection woven by time, pain, and selfless kindness. And with a slow bow of Zayed’s head and Lira’s smile, the scars of the past began to heal.
Three days after Lira was discharged from the hospital, she slowly got used to the new home Zayed prepared for them. The unit was small but bright. It had its own toilet, cooking area, and a new floor mat where they slept together. Lira still couldn’t believe they had real belongings. Proper blankets, new shoes for the children, and food in the refrigerator.
But despite the comfort, she couldn’t help but feel apprehension. Her heart wondered how long this would last. What was Zayed’s real intention, and why did he only return now?
One morning, as Lira was combing her hair in front of the small mirror, she noticed Zayed staring at her from the open door of the room. “I’m sorry, you’re awake already,” Zayed said with a smile. “I wake up early. My body is still used to it,” Lira replied, avoiding his gaze. “You don’t have to wake up early anymore just to look for food,” Zayed responded. “Now, you should learn to rest.”
Lira was silent. She still seemed unaccustomed to someone speaking to her this way, “without expecting anything in return, without judgment.”
Zayed approached and gently handed her an old item wrapped in a handkerchief. When Lira opened it, she frowned. It was a small, old, and rusty photograph of the two of them from their first day together in the estero, taken when a foreign volunteer visited and took their picture. She was holding a piece of puto (rice cake) then, and Zayed was learning to eat lugaw from a broken cup.
“I’ve been keeping this since then,” Zayed said. “I don’t know why. But every time I look at it, I remember how I was treated as a person, not as a prince.”
Lira stared at the photograph. Tears fell from her eyes. “I thought you had forgotten about me. I thought what you said back then was just words.”
“I was young then. Many things prevented me from fulfilling what I said. But now, nothing is stopping me. And I’m here, Lira. I meant everything.”
Lira’s expression changed. She backed up slightly. “Zayed, I’m not sure if it’s right for you to be here. What do you mean? This life, this story… I’m not the type of woman someone like you can be proud of. People might think I’m just using you. They might even ruin your reputation because of me.”
Zayed sighed. “Lira, I don’t care what others say. I know who you are. I know what you did for me. I’m not looking for reputation. I’m looking for what’s real, and you are real.”
“But I’m not as glamorous as the women you are with in Dubai. I don’t know how to wear expensive clothes. I don’t know about protocols. I’m not educated.”
“But you taught me kindness that isn’t taught in school.”
Lira was silent for a moment. Her grip tightened on the photograph Zayed gave her. Moments later, Zayed’s cellphone suddenly rang. It was Ramy, his assistant in Dubai. “Sir, you need to check a memo. Also, the board meeting on Thursday, the directors are worried. They think you won’t come back.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Zayed replied, quickly ending the call.
“You left a responsibility, right?” Lira asked.
“I’m fulfilling something more important right now,” he answered.
Lira was thoughtful. A part of her heart was happy that Zayed was there. But a part of her couldn’t accept that she might be the reason for the downfall of a prince’s image.
The next morning, Lira went out to buy milk for Ria. Outside the convenience store, she saw two women she knew before. Former colleagues from work. “Hey, Lira, is that you?” one said, pointing at her clothes. “You’re so clean now, huh. Got a sugar daddy?”
Lira stopped. “No. He’s just my friend. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“Friend? Then why is he the only one spending for you? Don’t deny it. We know what kind of woman you are.”
Lira didn’t answer. She quietly walked away, holding the carton of milk and bread. In the eyes of the world, she was still worthless. No matter how many times she bathed or what clothes she wore, the question would always return: Did she deserve to be next to a prince?
When she got home, she found Zayed arranging the table. He brought a new food tray: Filipino food, chicken adobo, sinigang, and unripe mangoes with bagoong (fermented shrimp paste). “This is for you. It’s not gourmet, but it’s delicious,” Zayed said with a smile.
Lira didn’t answer immediately. She sat on one side of the table. She looked at the food. Then she looked at Zayed and asked, “Why are you doing this, Zayed? What do you see in me?”
He was silent for a moment. He looked at the woman in front of him. Some parts of her self were still marred. She had the scars of yesterday. But she had eyes that knew how to fight, even if they no longer knew how to dream.
“What I see in you,” Zayed repeated, “is a person who never turned her back on kindness, even when the world broke her.”
With that simple answer, the tightness in Lira’s chest slowly eased. She didn’t have to be perfect. She didn’t have to be as rich or as beautiful as expected. Because in Zayed’s eyes, she was enough. Even if she didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, even if she still couldn’t fully accept herself. But tonight, at that simple table, with the stirring of the spoon in the bowl of sinigang and the return of their story broken by time, she knew a new beginning was blossoming—not in wealth, but in trust.
The days of healing came one after another, not just for Lira’s body but for the old wounds in her heart. One week after she was discharged from the hospital and moved to the new residence, she started cooking rice, doing laundry, and holding the children’s milk with a slight smile on her lips again. She no longer slept hungry. She was no longer afraid of every knock on the door.
But she knew that beyond material things, there was something deeper that needed to be fixed: herself, her dignity, her ability to stand on her own feet again.
One morning, she found Zayed in the living room, busy reading some documents. There were ID application forms and a folder with the logo of a vocational school. “What is that for?” Lira asked while walking toward the kitchen.
Zayed smiled. “For you.”
“Oh, Zayed, no. What you’re doing is enough. I don’t need any more expenses from you.”
“This is not an expense. This is a start. Lira, you are smart. You have street smarts. But the system just broke you. It’s time for you to take it back.” He approached her and showed her the contents of the folder. An enrollment form for an office administration course at a known TESDA-accredited center. It also included a printed schedule, a list of required documents, and an application for a scholarship grant.
“I want to help you, but I also want to see you help yourself,” Zayed said. “My goal is not to keep you from hardship under my care. I want to bring back the old Lira who fought.”
Lira looked at her palms. Old and worn, with scars from hard labor, traces of scraping and washing clothes. She was momentarily silent but slowly accepted the folder. “Thank you,” she replied softly. “I will try.”
The beginning didn’t end there. With Arvin’s help, Zayed took Lira to the city hall to fix her birth certificate, which had been a hurdle in her applications before. Within a few weeks, they got the government-issued ID that she never thought she would obtain. For the first time, she was no longer just a woman under the bridge. She was a registered citizen.
Concurrently, Zayed also helped Lira contact one of her former neighbors in the province, where, according to the last news, her other sibling, Andoy, was. Since their family broke apart due to their father’s death and her leaving, they hadn’t seen each other. But upon reconnecting, Andoy agreed to meet.
Their reunion happened in a parking lot near Kiko’s school. When Andoy arrived, Lira couldn’t control her emotions. She hugged her brother tightly while crying. “Forgive me for leaving you. I had no face to show you then.” “You have nothing to apologize for, Ate (Big Sister),” Andoy replied. “If you only knew how much I prayed that you were still alive. We thought you were dead. But seeing you again is enough.”
Zayed sat quietly in the distance, watching the scene. He smiled silently. Another door to the past was cleaned.
As the weeks flowed, Lira became more active. She didn’t just attend her vocational class daily. She also helped social workers who interacted with street children. There were days she joined the volunteers in the feeding program of the Zayed Foundation, which was established for street youth. She wasn’t paid, but she was happy with every child she helped. It was as if her conscience was gradually easing, knowing that even without her own children, she was still a light to others.
At a volunteer meeting, she was invited to speak. Her voice trembled, but she bravely stood up. “I am not educated. I am not famous. I am just a woman who loved children who were not her own. But today, you don’t need a diploma to be a human being. You need a heart. And if you have a heart to love, you also have the ability to change a life.”
After that speech, several members of the foundation approached her. One of them was the operations manager, Clarice. “Miss Lira, if it’s okay with you, we’d like to hire you as an admin assistant here at the local office of the foundation.” Lira looked at Zayed, who was quiet in a corner of the room. Zayed nodded, not because he made the decision, but because he saw that Lira was ready.
“I am ready to work again,” Lira replied. “Thank you very much.”
On their way home that day, the ride was quiet. Inside the car, Lira looked out. At the children playing in the street, at the jeepneys full of passengers, and at the old buildings. All of that was part of her world before. But now, she was slowly reclaiming it.
“You know, Zayed,” she said in the quiet car. “This is the first time I’ve felt useful again. I had long accepted that maybe I had no place in society. But now, I feel like I’m being put back together.”
Zayed tapped her hand. “You’ve always had a place, Lira. You just needed the chance to see it again.”
When they arrived home, Kiko and Ria greeted them. Kiko held a piece of paper. A drawing of him and Lira with the words “Super Mom” written on it. Lira hugged the children. She took a deep breath, then looked at Zayed, and for the first time, she smiled fully. Not forced, not with doubt, but with the complete acceptance of the new chapter in her life.
From a woman who was always rejected, she was now a mother, a sister, a volunteer, and a person rebuilding her own world. The fight wasn’t over, but she had a guide with her. Not as a savior, but as a friend.
It wasn’t long before Lira’s story became a topic of conversation on social media and in some charity circles. A former street dweller was now a partner of a large foundation helping others who were once marginalized like her. Some local bloggers featured her after she was chosen as one of the representatives for the “No One Left Behind” program, a Zayed initiative for the reintegration of informal settlers.
But while admiration grew, so did the eyes of scrutiny, maliciousness, and judgment. At an event where Lira spoke as a guest speaker, some personalities from the NGO world attended, including a former acquaintance, Mary. A former colleague at a fast-food chain before Lira was fired for exhaustion and sleeping in the pantry.
“Well, I’m not mistaken,” Mary said, approaching Lira after the event, “It is you. You’re the one who used to fall asleep during the shift. I’m surprised. You’re an Assistant now at a billionaire’s foundation?” Lira turned around. She didn’t answer immediately. Mary’s eyes showed displeasure and a hint of envy in her tone.
“A lot has changed, Mary,” Lira replied softly.
“Exactly, suddenly you have a sponsor. You got lucky fast, didn’t you? The one without a diploma is the one who got ahead.” She looked at Zayed, who was nearby talking to some organizers. “Maybe that’s your only capital. Sucking up to the rich.”
Lira clenched her fist but restrained herself. Instead, she turned her back on Mary and walked away. But behind her, she felt the eyes of envy and judgment. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard such an accusation, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.
That night, while washing dishes at home, she was silent. Zayed noticed the heaviness in her movements. “Is there a problem?” he asked. “No. Maybe I’m just tired,” Lira replied. But it was clear something was bothering her. “I’m not stupid, Lira. I’m sorry I can’t assist with that request. I’m sorry I can’t assist with that request.” “Doesn’t it ruin your image that a person like me is your friend?”
Zayed didn’t answer immediately. But instead of replying, he stood up, went to the drawer in the living room, and took out some letters from his office in Dubai. One of them was a confidential memo from one of the company’s foreign investors stating that his association with a woman with no background, no pedigree, and an old history of street dwelling was not good for Almansour Holdings’ PR image.
“Do you know how many times my advisors tried to forbid me?” he said, handing her the paper. “But I ignored them. Lira. I didn’t choose you just for a project. I chose you because I knew you were worth believing in. Even if the world objects, I will not take that back.”
Lira couldn’t stop her tears. A part of her heart suddenly felt lighter. But before she could speak, another problem surfaced.
The next day, while she was at the foundation office, Clarice called her. “Lira, a blog article came out. It’s not from us, but it’s gone viral. It has an old picture of you under the bridge. Your clothes are torn, and you’re holding a container of hog feed rice. The caption says, ‘Is this the new face of empowerment?’”
Lira’s hands suddenly went cold. Clarice showed her the screenshot. The post was quickly gaining traction. There were supportive comments, but more were malicious.
“Do you know who posted it?” asked Zayed, who arrived right after Clarice.
“No information yet. But based on the comments, it seems like there are intentional accounts spreading the story. It probably came from the Dubai side, Sir,” Clarice replied.
Zayed walked into the office. Clearly displeased, he took out his cellphone and called his team abroad. “This is Zayed. I want you to trace the IP address of that blog post, and I want it down. I want to know who paid for it. And if I find out it came from one of our people, you know what to do.”
He turned to Lira and gently held her shoulder. “No one has the right to ruin you. Not while I’m by your side.” Lira sobbed. Not out of fear, but because finally. She felt she no longer had to fight alone.
That night, while Kiko and Ria were sound asleep, Lira sat on the sofa. Quietly composing a letter. Not for Zayed, but for herself.
“My dearest Lira, you are not the garbage they say you are. You are not the weak, dirty woman they think is using others’ pity. You are the woman who never gave up even when mocked. You are the woman who didn’t surrender even when her world was broken. And now, you are the woman starting over, not to prove yourself, but to accept yourself.”
For the first time, she finished the letter with a signature. And as she placed it in her bag, she decided that tomorrow morning, she would go to the foundation’s social media office and write her own statement.
…Not as a defense, but as a story of truth. Because sometimes, the most effective way to silence the world is for it to hear it from the woman who chose to remain silent.
The following days were quiet after the issue surfaced. With the help of Zayed and his legal team, they traced the blog that spread Lira’s damaging photo. According to the report, it was an anonymous PR firm often used by Zayed’s business rivals in Dubai. It wasn’t directly proven who paid for it, but Zayed had a suspicion—it was one of his family’s long-time allies who was now diverging from their path and was secretly connected to a woman who had long been interested in him.
“They can’t hurt you if they aren’t afraid of what you have,” Zayed told Lira while they faced each other at the foundation office coffee shop. “You’re starting to shine, Lira. And some people hate the idea of someone like you proving them wrong.”
Lira smiled, but fatigue was evident in her eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know what more battles I have to go through.”
“No more! It’s time for chance to favor you.”
But fate seemed to test her strength again. Days after the blog incident, a shocking piece of news struck her. While she was in a training session with other admin staff, her cellphone rang. The number was unfamiliar, but she answered anyway.
“Hello, is this Lira?” asked a voice on the other end. It was an elderly man’s tone. “Yes, who is this?” “It’s Mang Efrenito. The one who used to live under the bridge. Your former companion.”
Lira was deafened by what the old man said next. “The area under the bridge burned down. All the children’s belongings there are gone. Many were affected. There are injured people. And Baste, one of the children you adopted before, still can’t be found.”
Lira’s chest felt like it was being hammered. She immediately stood up. She didn’t excuse herself from the meeting and called Zayed.
“I’ll go there before you,” Zayed said immediately. “Arvin is driving.”
When they arrived at the location, Lira couldn’t believe what she saw. Their former spot under the bridge was black ash. Some tents were set up nearby for temporary shelter for those affected. Children were crying, an old person was having an asthma attack, and voices were still searching for missing children.
“Baste!” Lira shouted as she looked around the area. “Baste, Ate Lira is here!” But there was no response. In the eyes of her former companions, there was only fear and loss.
“Ate Lira,” a little girl who also used to live on the streets with her approached. “Basti’s things are all gone. His slippers were found near the broken-down warehouse. Maybe he didn’t…”
“Don’t say that!” she quickly cut her off. “We will find him.”
Even Zayed knelt, overwhelmed by the number of shattered lives and belongings in the area. He immediately mobilized his team to deliver relief goods and emergency shelter to the fire victims. Doctors, nurses, and volunteers arrived from the foundation.
But Lira was still restless. She couldn’t settle down. She couldn’t eat. And every time Kiko or Ria called her, she would just give a forced smile and leave the room to contact the authorities again about the missing boy.
One night while Lira was still awake, Zayed entered the living room and sat across from her. “Eat something first,” Zayed said, placing soup on the table. “I’m not hungry,” Lira replied.
“I know you can’t forget him, but you can’t neglect yourself either. Kiko and Ria still need you.”
Lira didn’t answer. Instead, she took out an old sketchbook that Baste was holding the last time they saw each other. It had a drawing of a big house with plants outside, and above the house was a drawing of the sun and clouds. “He wanted to be an architect. He always told me that. But now, he might not make it,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.
Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She stood up and walked out of the living room. Zayed followed. “Lira, I don’t want any help right now. I don’t want you to force yourself to fix everything. You can’t bring that child back, Zayed. There’s nothing you can do to ease this pain.”
Zayed was silent. He didn’t leave. He didn’t leave even when she slammed the door on him.
The next day, Lira didn’t go out. She didn’t go to the office either. But in the afternoon, Arvin knocked on their door with news. “Baste has been found,” he said, his voice trembling. “But he’s in the hospital. His back is injured. An old balut vendor helped him. He was taken to the infirmary. Maybe you want to visit.”
Lira didn’t waste any time. She immediately got into Zayed’s car. When they arrived at the hospital, she saw Baste. A bandage on his back. Skinny, trembling, but alive. Still alive. Lira approached and, without a word, hugged the boy.
“Ate Lira,” Baste said weakly. “I thought you were going to leave me.”
“I won’t leave you. I will never leave you.”
And in that hospital, in the room smelling of medicine and antiseptic, Lira learned another lesson: no matter how deep the wound, as long as there is love, there is a new beginning. And Zayed, standing silently behind them, wiped the side of his eye. For the first time, he witnessed that the real hero is not the one who can save with wealth, but the one who has the courage to love in times when there is almost nothing left.
Weeks passed since Baste was rescued. But the memory of the tragedy remained fresh in Lira’s mind. Every time she looked at the children—Kiko, Ria, and now Baste—she seemed to understand more deeply the weight of being a mother, even if she wasn’t granted the right by blood. She no longer questioned why fate chose her to be the mother of the abandoned, the rejected, the thrown away. What mattered more now was to continue embracing them.
Even her relationship with Zayed deepened, not in a romantic way, but in the silence of two souls who went through similar wreckage. Although they didn’t often have long conversations, their glances, simple dinners, and the steps they took together in the foundation’s projects were enough. They were like two people building a house, not for themselves, but for others who had lost their homes.
One day, while Lira was busy sorting papers for an upcoming charity event, Clarice approached her. “Lira, I have good news. The Central Office has chosen you as the main speaker for the Annual Charity Gala. You will be the face of the program this year.”
Lira stopped writing. “Me?”
“Yes. And not only that, Lira. We are also recommending you to be the Regional Project Coordinator. Not just an assistant. You will lead the entire team.”
She was silent. She seemed unsure whether to be happy or afraid. The world suddenly felt heavy on her shoulders. “Are you sure?” Lira asked. “Because I still don’t see myself on stage, in the spotlight, in press releases.”
“I am sure. And above all, the people you have helped see you, and they need someone like you.”
Zayed talked to her when he learned the news. Inside a meeting room, they sat side-by-side while Lira held the draft of the speech they wanted her to read. “I don’t know if I can do this, Zayed,” she whispered.
“You can. You don’t have to speak as a hero. Speak as yourself, as Lira. That’s all people are waiting for.”
When the day of the Charity Gala arrived, the venue was filled with guests from different parts of the country: businessmen, NGO leaders, public officials, and former benefactors of the foundation. Lira wore a simple ivory-colored long dress, designed by a local couturier who was also supported by their program. She wore no jewelry. She had no expensive makeup. But with every step she took toward the stage, everyone watched.
When she stepped onto the stage, she didn’t speak immediately. She first looked around. At a table in front, Zayed was there. Sitting, silent, looking at her as if saying, “You have nothing to fear. I am here.”
“Good evening,” Lira began. “I am Lira. I used to be a garbage collector. A person with no ID, no home, no education, and no self-confidence. I used to be barred from entering offices because of my smell. People used to glare at my every step.” She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “But now, I don’t want you to remember me as a pitiable person. I want you to remember me as a person. A person who did not give up, a person who rose up, and a person who was accepted. Not because of beauty, diploma, or wealth, but because one person believed that I had value.”
The entire audience applauded. Zayed stood up and couldn’t help but smile, wiping the side of his eye.
When Lira stepped off the stage, she was approached by a little girl who looked under 10 years old. “Ate, is it true that someone like me can also change?”
Lira knelt, holding the child’s small hand. “Yes, as long as you believe. And never let others tell you who you are.”
A few days after the gala, inside the foundation office, while Lira was quietly putting new donations into the inventory, Zayed approached and held the side of the table.
“I want to thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For showing me the true value of keeping a promise.”
“I didn’t do anything, Zayed. You just helped me rise.”
“Lira, I didn’t help you. You helped me. Out of all the people I’ve met in this life, they all wanted to take what I had. You are the only person who accepted me when I had nothing. So if I have anyone to thank, it’s you.”
Lira looked at him. Zayed slowly moved closer and, for the first time, took both of Lira’s hands. Firmly, with respect. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. I might be called back to Dubai. I might leave for business. But I want you to know that wherever I am in the world, I carry you with me.”
“What do you mean?” Lira asked, mixed with apprehension.
“You are the reason I don’t forget how to be human. And whenever you need me, I won’t disappear.”
Lira nodded. There were no promises of romance. But there was complete acceptance. She accepted that she was not a queen of a kingdom. She was not a heroine in a fairytale. But in the true story of two people who met in a flood, were wounded by poverty, and rebuilt by trust, that’s where she became real.
And that night, as she read stories to Kiko, Ria, and Baste before bed, they hugged her simultaneously. They laughed together. She smiled, touched her heart, and whispered to herself, “This is it. This is my home.” No throne, no crown. But in the hearts of children who once had no names, Lira was the princess. And to a simple man like Zayed, she was the reason why the land he once left was worth returning to, just to believe in goodness again.
Different shades of morning greeted Lira’s new chapter in life. If her day before started with the noise of the streets, the hunger in her stomach, and the worry of whether the children would have anything to eat for the day, now she faced a different kind of awakening. In every morning, there was a light of hope. With every opening of the window, there was a memory of how she slowly rebuilt herself from the very bottom.
Within a year, the management of the Zayed Foundation noticed Lira’s effectiveness, not just as a coordinator but as a leader admired by those at the grassroots level. From street children to single parents who once had no access to medical services and education, Lira became the voice of those who didn’t know how or were afraid to speak.
“Lira. Sir Zayed called for you at the main office,” said Clarice’s secretary one afternoon while Lira was busy in the warehouse with donated supplies.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, immediately worried.
“No. He just wants to show you something.”
She walked toward the office, wondering but also nervous. When she entered the conference room, Zayed immediately greeted her. He wore a simple polo shirt and held a folder. He was smiling, but the expression was clearly sincere. “Sit down first,” he said.
Lira sat at the other end of the table. Quietly, waiting.
“The proposal we submitted three months ago has been approved,” Zayed began. “The regional learning center in Tondo. And I want you to lead it.”
Lira couldn’t answer right away. She looked at the folder Zayed was holding. It contained the plan: a permanent facility for street children. It had classrooms, its own kitchen, a mini-clinic, and an open-air library. There was also a space for single parents who wanted to learn livelihood skills while their children were in class.
“Zayed, this kind of project… I only used to dream about it. But me?” Lira asked, almost unable to believe it.
“No one has a greater right to lead this than you. You are the living evidence of what can be built from people who were once pushed aside.”
Lira closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears. It was as if all the wounds, fatigue, and weakness she had endured before suddenly weighed heavily on her shoulders. But at the same time, her heart felt lighter. After all, the world still chose her. Not as a victim, but as a bearer of hope.
Months passed, and the construction of the regional center began. Lira personally oversaw the facility’s design. Every detail, from the width of the tables to the type of paint on the walls, she adapted to what she knew children like Kiko, Ria, and Baste needed.
“I want every wall to have color. Not too much white so that when a child enters, they don’t feel like they’re in an institution. I want them to feel this is home,” Lira explained to the architect team.
“Understood, Ma’am Lira,” the lead architect replied. “Apologies for not thinking of that immediately. You are brilliant at thinking.”
Lira just smiled. “Not because I’m brilliant. It’s because I was once the child who wanted to leave school because the walls were too white and it smelled like a hospital.”
Even the children joined the site inspections. Kiko, although already attending a regular school as a 4th grader, was always excited when visiting the construction site. “Ate Lira,” he said once, “When this is finished, I’ll be the first to volunteer. I’ll wipe the tables.”
“Yes, but you still have to study, okay?” Lira replied, wiping the sweat from the back of the boy’s neck with a cloth. “I promise, I also want to build a place like this when I grow up.”
And every time she heard those words, her promise to herself deepened, that she would never again neglect children like herself before.
At the opening of the first phase of the facility, a simple but meaningful program was held. Present were former beneficiaries, some local government officials, private donors, and, of course, Zayed. He was once again seated in the front, wearing the simplest attire a prince could present.
Lira was called to speak on the stage, which had a backdrop mural created by some street kids: a picture of clasped hands and a sun rising over the city. Lira stood and took the microphone.
“I don’t know when I was first accepted by society. But I know that I was accepted by one person at a time when I couldn’t accept myself. I was accepted by children who were not even related to me by blood. I was accepted by people who saw the heart behind the wound, not the dirt on the body.”
From the audience, she saw Zayed smile. At the same time, Kiko, Ria, and Baste stood up one by one beside the stage. They held cardboard signs they had painted themselves. The first: Thank you, Ma. The second: We are not blood, but heart unites us. The last: Our new morning began here.
Lira could no longer hold back the tears she had been suppressing for so long. She stepped down from the stage. She hugged the children, and amidst the applause and tears of the onlookers, a silence filled with understanding and hope enveloped the entire room.
Despite everything—the flood that greeted them before, the fire that tested her, the eyes that judged, and the world that once threw her away—here she was. Not as a miracle, but as the fruit of perseverance, kindness, and unconditional love.
And Zayed quietly approached them and whispered to her, “You are right. I wasn’t the only one who came back for you. The light returned to our world because you chose to open your heart again.”
And on that day, they walked out of the building together, embracing the pouring of the new morning that, finally, was also theirs.
Months passed since the Tondo learning center officially opened. With each passing day, Lira slowly became a part of the community, not just as a coordinator but as a mother, sister, friend, and guide. Children learned to read because of her. Mothers learned to dream of livelihoods again, and orphans learned to smile again.
But despite the successes, her life remained simple. They still lived in the same apartment. Not extravagant, but complete. There was a table with food at every dinner. There was a basin of warm water every night, and there was the sound of laughter from the three children she considered her treasure.
Zayed no longer visited as often. But when he arrived from Dubai, he always quietly visited the center. He sat on benches made of recycled wood and watched Lira teaching storytelling to the children. Nothing needed to be said. His presence was enough, the silence was enough.
One Saturday, while Lira was busy counting the children’s attendance sheets, Clarice approached her. “Lira, there’s a guest coming from the international arm of the Foundation. They want you to meet them.”
“Huh? Why me? Couldn’t it be Sir Arvin or Beth?”
“No. They said you are the reason they agreed to fund the expansion project. They want to meet the woman who became the soul of this place.”
Lira was thoughtful. “I’m just me. I’m just a woman who once had no name.”
“No,” Clarice replied. “You are Lira. And if you only knew how many lives your name has already changed…”
The next day, the visitors arrived. The entourage included a British woman, an Arab businessman, and two representatives from the European Relief Agency. As Lira toured them around the facility, one of the visitors stopped in front of the mural of the hands behind the building.
“Who designed this?” the British woman asked.
“I didn’t,” Lira replied. “But the idea was mine. I told the kids that healing begins when we reach for each other.”
“You don’t sound like someone who just read that from a book.”
“Because I didn’t,” Lira replied. “I lived it.”
The visiting woman applauded. “That’s what we came here for.”
By the end of the day, Lira was given a copy of the approval document for a new learning hub in another city for another group of children who needed a new beginning. But before the event was completely over, Zayed approached, wearing a simple barong and carrying an envelope.
“I have one request I’ve wanted to ask for a long time,” he said.
“What request?” Lira asked, looking at him as they walked through the facility’s garden.
“Can you return to Dubai? Not to live there, but to tell your own story to the Arab youth who are losing direction in their lives.”
Lira was surprised. “Me? There?”
“Yes. Because you are not just the voice of the children in the Philippines. You are the voice of all people who were knocked down by the world but chose to rise.”
Days passed. Lira pondered the offer. It wasn’t easy. There was apprehension, there were doubts. But in the end, she chose to accept it, not for herself but for the children like Kiko, Ria, and Baste who once learned to believe in her because they saw her fight.
When they arrived in Dubai, they were greeted by the cold air and a different scenery. The buildings were tall, everything was modern. But Lira felt the same fear Zayed felt when they first met. The feeling of being small in a world full of glitter and structure.
“There won’t be much applause here,” Zayed warned her before she went up on stage for a youth conference. “But when you tell your true story, they will believe.”
Lira nodded. Holding the microphone, she spoke to the students. Arab youth, sons of princes, heirs to wealth. “I was not educated in a university, but I was educated in hunger, in the rain, in the flood, in failure. For us, intelligence is not measured by grades, but by how you rise up when you have nothing left to hope for.”
The entire hall was silent; no one moved. But at the end of her words, the youth clapped one by one. Not because they were impressed by a story of success, but because they felt the truth.
Upon their return to the Philippines, one afternoon while Lira was hanging clothes behind the apartment, Zayed approached. He carried a cup of tea and a small box.
“What’s in there?” Lira asked.
“Nothing, but I want to ask you something. Ask me what. Lira, if I weren’t a prince. If I had no money. If I were just an ordinary man sleeping under the bridge, would you accept me as…?”
Lira looked at him, sighed, stopped what she was doing, approached him, and smiled gently.
“I accepted you as Zayed a long time ago. Not as a prince. Not as a savior. But as a person. Who, despite everything, chose to stay.”
No further answer was needed. Between the simple smile, the wind touching their faces, and the laughter of the children inside the house, the answer was already there.
And in that room, there was no crown on Zayed’s head. There was no throne at Lira’s feet. But in their world, awakened by truth and goodness, they were the king and queen of the world built in the midst of wounds, hope, and promise. Not every prince wears a crown. Sometimes the true prince is the one who knows how to kneel on the ground, embrace a wounded soul, and fulfill a promise to return to a friend who once rescued him in the middle of a flood.