The morning sun peered through the cracks of our home in Kalawit, casting golden lines on the floor where my mother once stood, resolute yet tired.
I was a newborn then, too young to understand why my father packed his bags and left. “Manila,” he said, with promises of work and a better life. But Manila offered him something else: another woman, another life, leaving my mother to bear the weight of two children and countless sleepless nights.
We grew up in a world where sacrifices were clear,
Witnessing her struggle, year after year.
My brother and I watched her work through the night,
Mending clothes by the dim kerosene light.
Her hands were worn from soap and toil,
Cleaning, cooking, and endless soil.
She scrubbed the floors, cooked every meal,
With no complaints, just love that was real.
Her laughter, a spark, in the darkest of days,
Showing us love could bloom in so many ways.
Years passed, and she found a love that was kind,
A man who cherished her, and peace she could find.
In his arms, she found a new kind of grace,
A love to lift her up, in a tender embrace.
Growing up, school gatherings were meant to bring joy, But they’d pause with a question I couldn’t enjoy.“Where’s your father?” they’d ask with a stare,
As if his absence could just disappear in the air.
I’d shrug and reply, “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” It wasn’t anger, just quiet acceptance that some things aren’t ours to fix.
Life went on, forcing me to grow up quickly.
Financial struggles meant school had to wait,
And I found myself working in Manila, the city that once stole him away.
One day, my phone rang. “Hello?” I answered, balancing groceries in one hand and the receiver in the other. A pause. Then, “This is your father.” His voice was unfamiliar, like a stranger’s. My response was just as detached. “Okay,” I said, unsure what else to offer. He asked how I was. “I’m okay,” I replied, then hung up. Not out of anger, but because I felt nothing. How do you grieve a connection that was never there?
Years passed, and life unfolded in ways I never imagined. In Pasig, with a partner who made me laugh the way my mother once did, I found contentment.
Then another call came.
This time, it was his wife the reason why he left us.
Her voice carried a solemn weight. “Your father is listening. He’s sick. He wanted you to know he’s sorry and hopes you can forgive him.”
My response came easily, yet it felt profound. “I’m not angry. I’m not questioning his choices. My heart isn’t heavy for him.” And it was true. You can’t hate someone you never truly knew.
That was our goodbye, a closing chapter without resentment or regret. It was bittersweet, like the first rain after a long drought: refreshing, yet tinged with the weight of what was lost.
-Some endings are bittersweet, not for what they take away, but for what they teach.