Forty-nine days after my sister passed away, my brother-in-law wanted to find someone to take care of me. I went to burn incense for my sister, and my niece rushed over and suddenly called me mom. My brother-in-law whispered exactly three words to me, and then that whole night………..
A drizzly afternoon in Quezon City, exactly 49 days since Ate Liza passed away. The alley leading to my sister’s house was deserted, but the whisper still lingered like a shadow: “Your Bayaw is hinting at someone to take care of the food…” After hearing that, my chest tightened — I felt sorry for my sister, and angry at my brother-in-law Marco for being so quick.

I quietly entered the small house in Barangay Commonwealth, lit an incense stick in front of my sister’s photo on the altar — the photo frame was placed next to the slightly wilted sampaguita. As soon as I turned around, Mika — my sister’s daughter, only four years old — suddenly rushed over and hugged me, her eyes filled with tears, her mouth uttering two words that stunned me… “Mama!”

The whole house fell silent. I knelt down and hugged the child, tears streaming down my face. Marco came out of the room. His eyes were red, his shoulders visibly thinner after weeks of sleepless nights. He stopped in front of me, lowered his voice, choked like the wind in his throat:

“Don’t leave…”

My hands trembled. I didn’t know whether to be angry because of the rumors in the neighborhood, or to cry because the child was fearfully calling me “mom”. Then that night, Quezon City suddenly had a sudden rain. The sound of a tricycle passing by the alley, the sound of the corrugated iron roof, the damp smell of old lime walls mixed with the steady breathing of Mika who had fallen asleep. I sat next to the dark brown aparador narra, and Marco sat across from me, a cold cup of coffee on the table. We talked for a long time — about the long lamay sessions, about her last visit to PGH, about Mika’s intermittent sleep. At times, we were both silent, listening to the wall clock ticking like it was touching a newly healed wound.

We hugged each other — not to replace, but to hold on to the remaining warmth in the empty house. That night, perhaps in the eyes of many, something “unimaginable” happened. But in the room there was only the smell of dry sampaguita and the sound of rain, it was the night of adults struggling not to collapse before a child who called her “mother” by the wrong name.

The next morning, when the sunlight was flickering through the capiz window, I opened the wooden cabinet where Ate Liza kept her clothes. Crack! — a stack of thick envelopes slid straight down to my feet. The paper was stained, the edges of the envelopes frayed from moisture, but her trembling handwriting was still clearly printed. I opened each one, some just one line, some several long paragraphs — all like the last pieces of a puzzle she left behind. In the top envelope, a thin sheet of paper, her handwriting was slanted:

“If I am no longer here, please take my place by his side and the child.”

Below, there was another line in Tagalog, perhaps written on a tired evening:

“Kung wala na ako, pakiusap, huwag mong iwan sila.”

I sat down on the cold tile floor and continued reading. The other envelopes contained fragments of advice: “Mika’s medicine money is in a small wooden box,” “register your child for daycare at Barangay Hall,” “don’t let Marco skip meals, he has a stomach ache”… In an envelope near the end, she told me about the nights in the hospital watching Mika and me fall asleep on plastic chairs, about the feeling of helplessness when she knew her time was running out. She wrote: “Don’t be afraid of what people say. The scariest thing is that the baby won’t have anyone to hold her when she wakes up in the middle of the night.”

Outside, the sound of vendors selling taho waffles drifted in. I folded the envelopes, a pang of regret rising, both warm and cold. Marco stood at the door, saying nothing. He seemed to have known about these letters too — or at least sensed that what she left us was more than just household items.

I walked over to the altar and relit the incense. In the thin smoke like a mist, Ate Liza’s face in the photo looked down gently, her eyes the same as the day she comforted me when I fell down at the alley entrance. “Ate, I came back here just to light incense for you… But now, I still have to answer the little girl who called me ‘Mama’…”

Rumors, of course, spread faster than the wind. That afternoon, Tita Nena stopped by and said bluntly, “Rina, don’t be silly. People will say this and that about you.” I looked up, my voice a little hoarse: “Tita, last night Mika had a slight fever, and in her sleep she called ‘Mama’… What should I do?” Tita was silent. Her eyes welled up with tears when she saw the stack of letters I had placed on the table.

That night, the novena of the 49th day ended. Several relatives shook their heads. A neighbor said, half-pityingly, “Mabilis talaga ang panahon — time flies.” Marco quietly cleaned the incense burner and poured me a glass of water. He didn’t beg or make excuses. Only the words from last night still hung in the air: “Don’t leave.”

The next day, I woke up early, put on Ate’s apron, and cooked a pot of lugaw for Mika. The little girl sat at the table, hugging an old rag doll, her black eyes still occasionally moistened when looking at her mother’s photo. I brought out the bowl of porridge, inhaling deeply: “Mika, eat a little.” The little girl nodded slightly. When the spoon touched her lips, I heard the sound of a jeepney outside, the sunlight pouring through the bars of the window into thin sheets of gold. Marco stood leaning against the window frame, his eyes red but his mouth already knowing how to smile lightly.

I knew that if I stayed here for one more day, then one more day, the rumors would turn into a hammer and an axe. But I also knew that if I stepped out of the door, this house would only have the sound of the wind and her photo on the altar. I picked up the stack of letters, the last one hastily written: “Don’t let your child grow up in fear.” Next to it was her familiar signature – a long stroke like her half-smile when she teased me.

At noon, we brought flowers to the small church at the end of the street to ask for pamisa (a mass for the dead). The priest looked at Liza’s photo, then looked at me holding Mika. He placed his hand on her head and whispered a blessing. On the way home, a sudden downpour began, and Marco covered Mika and me with his thin coat. In the thick rain that smelled of dirt and gasoline, I heard my voice break:

“I… won’t leave. But we have to go slowly, be kind to each other, be kind to Ate’s memory.”

Marco nodded, not in joy but as if relieved of the last burden of a husband who had gone through a season of mourning. “Thank you. We’ll start with dinner tonight. No rush. No secrets. If anyone asks, I’ll say, ‘We’re trying to be a loving family before we become anything else.’”

That night, Mika slept soundly, without nightmares. I spread the blanket right next to her bed. Marco sat at the foot of the bed and reread an envelope—a letter Liza had written to him: “If you get too tired, ask Rina. I trust her more than anyone.” He folded the letter and placed it on the child’s bedside.

Outside, Quezon City was still noisy. People might say more. But in the small house with the aparador narra and the sunny capiz window, we chose to listen to another voice — the voice of someone who had gone far away, leaving instructions in stained envelopes: don’t let the child grow up empty.

And I understood: I had come to her house that day only to light incense. But when Mika called “Mama,” when Marco whispered “Don’t go,” when the stack of letters fell at my feet — I was faced with a last request that could not be ignored.

I stayed. Not to replace her love, but to keep it breathing, with hot meals every night, with nights of holding the child through fever, and with kindness big enough to endure all the rumors until they quieted like the sound of rain on a tin roof after a storm.