Dear Parents,

I write these lines when the city is late at night, the exact time that Miguel. in my house still has the study lights on. In many families, a diligent 16-year-old son is something to be proud of. But for me, the yellow light shining from my son’s room every night is a growing insecurity, until it bursts out one night I will never forget.

Migs is 16 years old — the age of “half-heartedness”. He is no longer the little boy who chirps and clings to Nanay’s skirt. He is tall, quiet, and the door to his room is always half-closed. I understand that it is the rule: he needs his own space. But that “private” is deep, like an invisible wall between mother and son. Meals at home only hear the sound of dishes and chopsticks; my questions are replaced by nods, shakes, or a few curt sounds.

Then he started staying up late. At first it was 12 o’clock, then 1 o’clock; There was a time when I woke up at 2am and saw the light still on in my child’s room. Nanay’s heart was burning. I started to think the worst: was my child playing games, watching unhealthy things, or hanging out with bad friends online? I asked, Migs just said: “I’m studying.” The answer didn’t reassure me, on the contrary, it made me even more suspicious.

The climax was last night. It was almost 1am, I couldn’t sleep. Worry urged me to do what I knew was wrong: spy on what my child was doing. I walked barefoot on the cold wooden floor, holding my breath until I couldn’t make a sound. My heart was pounding. I peeked into the crack of the door, ready for the worst.

But what I saw made my limbs go limp, I had to hold onto the wall to stand firm….
No games. No dark websites. On the screen was an online Chemistry lecture, the desk was piled with “reviewers”, outlines, and thick sets of questions for school exams. My son was emaciated, dark circles under his eyes, his head bowed tiredly under the desk lamp.

Then what broke my heart happened. Migs stretched, rubbed his eyes, opened a drawer. It wasn’t snacks or entertainment. He took out an old photo — a family photo from a trip to Batangas beach 5 years ago. In the photo, Migs was in 6th grade, skinny, dark, smiling with his arm around Tatay’s shoulder. He looked at his own smile that day for a long time and then sighed softly.

At that moment, I understood everything. He wasn’t bad. He was overloaded. The pressure from school, from family expectations, from the race for achievements weighed heavily on his thin shoulders. He stayed up late not to play, but to brace himself against a mountain of knowledge. He closed the door not because he hated Nanay, but because he didn’t want anyone to see his tired, lonely appearance. That sigh was regretting his carefree age and being uncertain about the future.

I staggered back to my room, tears welling up. I was wrong. I worried about my child’s future, forced him to choose the STEM track, dreamed of getting into a gifted class, but forgot that he also needed to rest, needed to be a child. I saw him grow physically, but forgot that his soul also needed to be comforted. The wall between us was not built by him alone; I also contributed.

This morning, I stopped rushing. I quietly cooked the arroz caldo he liked, added a slice of egg and a bit of ginger. When Migs came out, looking surprised, I smiled:
“Eat, anak. You worked hard last night. Today we… don’t need to rush.”

He paused for a second, softly “opo”. Just one sound, but I knew the wall between us had begun to crack.

Tonight, I will tell him: Let’s reset our rhythm — study in moderation, rest enough, go to the park on weekends, occasionally go back to Subic/Batangas to laugh like that photo from years ago. And I — a Nanay in the Philippines — will learn all over again how to accompany, not impose; how to listen, not compare.

Because perhaps, healing my child is also healing me.