That night, the laughter echoing from the kitchen made the whole house feel alive again. The Mendoza family of Quezon City was busy preparing for dinner—an elegant celebration at a new restaurant for Adrian’s promotion.

Clarisse, his wife, was busy choosing a dress while little Nico ran around in his pajamas, giggling and clapping his hands.

Nanay Lorna, sitting quietly on the sofa, watched them with a faint smile. It had been years since she saw her family this happy. She smoothed her plain blouse and softly asked,

“Pwede na ba tayong umalis, anak? Nakabihis na si Mama.”

Adrian looked up, his expression uneasy. He chuckled awkwardly.

“Ah… Ma, ano kasi… medyo masikip ‘yung sasakyan. At puno rin ang reservation sa restaurant. Next time na lang ha, Ma? Promise, ako na magdadala sa ’yo.”

The words were gentle, but they pierced her heart like a blade.

Lorna tried to keep her smile.

“Ganun ba? Sige, okay lang, anak. Diyan lang naman ako sa bahay.”

Adrian hesitated.

“Pasensya na po talaga, Ma.”

She nodded. And just like that, her son, his wife, and their child left—laughing, chatting, and not once looking back.

When the door closed, silence fell upon the house. Only the ticking of the clock accompanied her.

Lorna sat there for a long time, her eyes blurry with tears—not of anger, but of deep, quiet sorrow.

The Loneliness of a Mother Forgotten

Two years ago, after her husband died, Lorna had moved in with Adrian and Clarisse. She had believed that living with her son’s family would give her a peaceful old age surrounded by love.

But soon, subtle boundaries began to appear.

“Ma, wag mo muna ayusin ’yung kitchen, may system na kami.”
“Ma, wag mo munang pakainin si Nico ng niluluto mo, baka mag-iba ang taste.”

Little by little, she learned to stay silent. She didn’t want to be a burden. She just wanted to belong.

And yet tonight, hearing the words “Ma, masikip ang sasakyan, ikaw na lang sa bahay,” she realized she had long been erased from their plans, from their lives.

The Suitcase

When the laughter faded, Lorna stood up, walked to her small cabinet, and pulled out an old brown suitcase—the same one she had used when she married in 1985.

She folded her clothes neatly.

On the altar, her late husband’s photo seemed to watch her. She whispered,

“Tay… aalis na ako. Parang sobra na ako dito.”

Then she left a note on the dining table:

“Anak, umuwi muna ako sa probinsya. Huwag kang mag-alala.”

She locked the door and left that night.

A New Beginning in the Province

She returned to her small house in Batangas, the one she had inherited from her parents. The smell of wet soil, the sound of crickets, and the warmth of old neighbors greeted her like home.

“Uy, Lorna! Akala namin nasa Maynila ka na!”
“Ah, oo. Babalik lang ako rito saglit. Aalagaan ko muna ’yung bakuran.”

But in her heart, she knew she wasn’t going back.

Her life began anew—planting vegetables, raising chickens, selling bagoong in the market, and helping babysit for neighbors. It was a simple life, but one filled with peace and laughter.

Every night, she listened to the radio while sitting on her bamboo chair. Sometimes she would think of Adrian, Clarisse, and little Nico—but she never called. She was afraid to hear that same cold tone again.

Three Months Later

One stormy evening, a car stopped outside her gate. Lorna rushed to the window, surprised to see a familiar figure running through the rain.

It was Adrian.

He burst into tears as soon as he saw her.

“Ma! Salamat sa Diyos, buhay ka pa!”

She blinked, confused.

“Ha? Anong ibig mong sabihin, buhay pa ako?”

Adrian fell to his knees.

“Tatlong buwan na kitang hinahanap, Ma! Nung gabi na umalis ka… pagbalik namin galing sa restaurant… nasunog ang bahay!”

Her knees weakened.

“Ano? Nasunog?”

“Oo, Ma. Nagsimula sa kusina, dahil sa short circuit. Akala namin nandun ka sa loob. Ang natira lang… isang tsinelas mo at ’yung lumang maleta. Akala namin… patay ka na.”

Lorna froze. Tears welled in her eyes. Clarisse appeared behind Adrian, holding Nico, crying uncontrollably.

“Ma, sorry po. Hindi ko dapat sinabi na wag ka nang sumama. Araw-araw kong pinagsisisihan. Kung nandun ka nung gabi…”

Lorna gently caressed her daughter-in-law’s hair and whispered,

“Kung nandun ako, baka ako na ang kasama sa abo. Baka ito ang paraan ng langit para gisingin tayong lahat.”

They sat together in that small nipa house, crying and hugging.

“Ma,” Adrian said between sobs, “patawarin mo ako. Mas inuna ko ang mundo ko—trabaho, pamilya, pero hindi kita naisip. Nakalimutan kong ikaw ang pinagmulan ng lahat ng ‘yon.”

Lorna smiled weakly.

“Anak, hindi kailanman nagagalit ang isang ina. Pero tandaan mo ito: kapag ang isang ina ay nag-empake para umalis, ibig sabihin, may bahagi na ng puso niya ang tuluyang namatay.”

Adrian held her hand tightly.

“Ma, please, bumalik ka na sa amin. May bago kaming bahay, malaki, at may espasyo na palagi para kay Mama.”

Tears fell as she nodded silently.

The Garden Called “A Seat for Mama”

Three months later, the whole family moved back to Batangas. They built a new home beside Lorna’s garden. Nico played among the flowers, laughter echoing across the fields.

One afternoon, Adrian said playfully,

“Ma, balak kong lagyan ng karatula itong garden mo. Anong gusto mong pangalan?”

Lorna smiled, looking at the bench under the santol tree.

“Ilalagay mo: ‘A Seat for Mama.’ Para kahit anong mangyari, may lugar lagi para sa akin.”

The family fell silent—then laughed together through tears.

Sometimes, it only takes one careless sentence to make a mother feel like a stranger in her own home. But a mother’s love—like the roots of an old tree—never dies. It simply waits, quietly, until her children find their way back.