That man sold his own blood so I could study. Today, now that I earn 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 been admitted and a burning dream to escape poverty. Life was so harsh that even the neighborhood dogs barked excitedly whenever there was meat on the table.
My mother died when I was ten, and my biological father had 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 rather, the man who truly became my father.
He had been my mother’s youth companion. He earned a living pushing a small cart or riding a motorbike, and he lived in a tiny ten-square-meter room by the Pasig River. When my mother passed, he—despite his own hardships—said, “The boy stays with me.” And throughout my school years, that man worked tirelessly, went into debt, and sacrificed everything to make sure I could study.
Once, I needed money for a course but was too embarrassed to ask him. That night, he handed me some crumpled bills that smelled faintly of hospitals and whispered, “Your father sold his blood. It wasn’t much, but it’s for you. Take it, my son.”
That night, I cried like a baby. Who lets someone draw their own blood over and over just to keep a child in school, a child not even of their own flesh? But my stepfather did, year after year, throughout my secondary education. No one ever knew—only the two of us.
When the university acceptance letter from Manila arrived, he hugged me and almost cried with pride. “You’re a genius, son,” he said. “Give your heart to this. I can’t be with you forever, but you have to study to rise above this life.”
At university, I managed by working at coffee shops, tutoring, and doing anything I could. But he stubbornly sent me money every month, even if it was all he had. I’d tell him not to, and he’d reply, “A father’s money is a child’s right, my boy.”
When I graduated and got a job at a multinational company, my first salary was five thousand pesos. I sent him two thousand immediately. But he refused to take it. “Keep it,” he said. “You’ll need it. I’m old now; I don’t need much.”
Nearly ten years passed, and I had become a manager, earning over thirty thousand pesos a month. I thought about 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.
Then one day, he showed up at my house. Thin, sunburned, with completely white hair. He sat on the edge of the sofa, embarrassed, and whispered, “My son… your father is old now. My eyesight is failing, my hands shake, and I get sick often. The doctor says I need a surgery that costs twenty thousand. I have no one else to turn to… that’s why I came to ask you for a loan.”
I stayed silent. I remembered the nights he made me tea when I was sick, the times he got soaked bringing my forgotten school bag, the early mornings I found him sleeping in a rickety chair waiting for me to return from classes.
I looked him in the eyes and said softly, “I can’t. I won’t give you a single cent.”
He stayed silent. Tears filled his eyes, but he didn’t get angry. Slowly, he nodded and got up, like a beggar whose door had just been slammed in his face.
But before he left, I took his hand and knelt down.
“Dad… you are my real father. How can we talk about debts between a father and son? You gave me your entire life. Now let me take care of you for the rest of yours. You always said, ‘A father’s money is a child’s right.’ Now, my money is your right.”
Then he broke down and cried. I held him tightly, like a frightened child after a nightmare. His thin, trembling back made me cry too.
From that day on, he lives with us. My wife never objected; on the contrary, she cares for him lovingly. Even though he is old, he still helps around the house, and whenever we can, we go out together or travel.
Many ask me, “Why treat your stepfather so well, when he could barely give you anything while you were studying?” I just smile and reply, “He paid for my education with his blood and his years. We aren’t related by blood, but he loved me more than any biological 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 is never too late to pay—fully, sincerely, and with all your heart.