That man sold his own blood so that I could study. Today, earning a hundred thousand pesos a month, he came to ask me for money, and I didn’t give him a single cent…
When I got accepted into university, all I had was a letter saying I had passed and a burning dream to escape poverty. Life was so harsh that if there was meat on the table, even the neighborhood dogs barked with excitement.
My mother died when I was ten, and my biological father disappeared long before I could even remember his face. The only one who took me in was a man who wasn’t my blood: my stepfather, or better yet, the man who became my true father.
He had been my mother’s childhood friend. He earned a living pushing a tricycle or riding a motorbike, and lived in a small rented room by the Pasig River. When my mother passed away, it was he, despite his own hardships, who said, “The boy will come with me.” And throughout all my school years, that man worked tirelessly day and night, even going into debt, so that I wouldn’t drop out of school.
Once, I needed money for a course but felt ashamed to ask him. That night, he gave me crumpled bills that smelled faintly of antiseptic and whispered, “Your father sold blood. They gave a little money. Here, my son.”
I cried like a baby that night. Who lets someone take their own blood again and again just to pay for a child’s studies, a child not even of their own blood? But my father did it throughout high school. Nobody knew, only the two of us.
When the letter from the university in Manila arrived, he hugged me and almost cried with pride. “You are a genius, my boy,” he said. “Put your heart into it. I can’t be with you forever, but you must study to leave this life behind.”
At university, I managed by working at cafés, tutoring, and doing odd jobs. But he, stubborn as ever, continued to send help every month, even if it was all he had. I told him not to, and he said, “A father’s money is a child’s right, my boy.”
When I graduated and got a job in a multinational company, my first salary was fifty thousand pesos. I sent him twenty thousand immediately. But he refused to accept it. “Keep it,” he said. “You’ll need it. I’m old now, what more do I need?”
Nearly ten years passed, and I had become a manager earning over three hundred thousand pesos a month. I thought of bringing him to live with me in the city, but he refused. He said he was used to his simple life and didn’t want to be a burden. Knowing his stubbornness, I didn’t insist.
Until one day, he appeared at my house. He was thin, sunburned, with completely white hair. He sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa and whispered, “My son… your father is old. My eyes are failing, my hands shake, and I get sick often. The doctor says I need surgery costing about two hundred thousand. I have no one else to turn to… that’s why I came to ask you.”
I stayed silent. I remembered the nights he made tea for me when I was sick. The times he came home drenched after carrying my forgotten school bag. The early mornings I found him sleeping on a worn chair, waiting for me to return from class.
I looked him in the eyes and whispered, “I can’t. I won’t give you a single cent.”
He stayed quiet. Tears filled his eyes, but he wasn’t angry. He nodded slowly and got up, like a beggar turned away at the door.
But before he left, I took his hand and knelt.
“Dad… you are my true father. How can we talk about debts between father and son? You gave me your whole life; now let me take care of you for the rest of yours. You used to say, ‘A father’s money is a child’s right.’ Now, my money is your right.”
Then he broke down and cried. I held him tight, like a child frightened by a nightmare. His thin, trembling back made me cry too.
Since that day, he has lived with us. My wife never objected; on the contrary, she cares for him with love. Even though he’s an old man now, he still helps around the house, and whenever we can, we go out or travel together.
Many people ask me, “Why do you treat your stepfather so well, if he could hardly give you anything while you were studying?” I just smile and answer, “He paid for my education with his blood and his years. We may not share blood, but he loved me more than any real father. If I don’t take care of him, then what’s the point of life?”
Some debts in this world cannot be repaid with money. But when it comes to gratitude, it’s never too late to pay… fully, sincerely, and from the heart.