Dad, I don’t know what to say to you, so I just dare to write it down here. Maybe I will never give it to you to read, but if one day you happen to find this notebook, please believe me. Every morning, when you are still busy at work, my stepmother will wake me up. I am very thirsty, my throat is dry, but my mother never gives me anything to drink. She only gives me a cup of milk, in which there is only a small spoon, thin as water. I drink it quickly but still don’t feel full.

Then when Dad asks: “Have you had breakfast yet?”, Mom immediately smiles: “He has eaten, I took care of everything.” Dad is at ease, but I can only go to school with an empty stomach.

Dad, you know, if I dare to disobey, right after breakfast, my mother will pull me into the room. The door closes, within the four cold walls, my mother makes me slap my own mouth, one by one. Every time I cried, my mother coldly said: “Cry, let your father hear, that’s even better. Let’s see if you choose me or your life.” I was so scared, Dad. But something even more terrible happened after that…

Last night, my mother shouted: “You don’t deserve to have your own bed, you don’t deserve to have blankets and pillows.” Then my mother forced me to spread out a mat and lie in the cold hallway. In the middle of the night, I shivered because of the wind, my stomach growled with hunger, while in the other room, my father and mother slept peacefully, unaware.

Many times I wanted to run in and hug my father, to tell him everything, but my mother’s fierce gaze paralyzed me. I was afraid that if I spoke out, tomorrow would be even worse.

Dad, I miss my biological mother. I crave a full meal, a full glass of water, a warm hug. But it seems like those simple things are so far away…

If one day you read this, I just hope you believe: I tried to be strong, but sometimes I feel like I can’t take it anymore.

— “Anak, tell Tatay”

On Monday morning, the school gate was hung with a red and white banner. The whole class lined up in the yard, the national anthem playing. I stood in the last row, my stomach empty, my throat dry as the desert. The smell of the hot taho from the street vendor wafted through the fence, making me want to cry. I just wished for… a full glass of water.

When I shouted “Mabuhay ang Pilipinas!”, my eyes darkened. When I opened them, I saw Teacher Gemma bending down, her voice warm like a bowl of lugaw in the morning:

— Are you thirsty, anak? Drink up.

The cool water flowed down my neck, I trembled with happiness. Teacher quietly helped me up, called me to the medical room. A moment later, she asked very softly:

— Is there anything wrong at home?

I bit my lip. That fierce gaze appeared in my mind, the threatening words “let’s see if you choose your father or your life”. I shook my head.

Teacher did not press further. She opened the drawer and gave me a small notebook with a green cover and a sampaguita sticker:

— If you can’t speak yet, write it here. Only when you want, adults can read it. Promise?

I nodded.

That afternoon, the habagat rained heavily. I hugged the notebook and hid in the corner of the classroom, writing as if I was afraid the words would fly away: “Dad…” I wrote down all the things that were stuck in my throat. When I finished, I slid the notebook to the bottom of my bag, where the zipper was worn. On the way home, I hid under the awning of Aling Nena’s sari-sari store to keep it dry. She looked at me and sighed:

— Poor bata, so skinny. Have a cup of salabat to warm your stomach?

I wanted to say “salamat po”, but I was afraid I would be late. I rushed through the rain, my tsinelas sandals splashing with mud.

That night, things got worse. The door to my room closed, the sound of rain was like thousands of fingers tapping on the corrugated iron roof. “Slap yourself.” I heard my voice echoing in my cheekbones: pop… pop…. Each sound was a fear that added to it.

—Cry, let Tatay hear. — she hissed. — Let’s see who you choose.

I was silent. Finally, I was pushed out into the hallway. The cold mat was stuck to my back. I hugged my bag, hugged my notebook, my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling where the lizard was motionless like a curse.

The next morning, a tiny thing happened, and everything changed.

Before my father’s tricycle could be turned off outside the gate, I tilted the water bottle, leaving only a few drops. I looked toward the kitchen, where the clean water can was locked with a rusty string. I heard my stepmother’s key make a “clack”.

—You’ve drunk enough. Drink this milk. — she handed me a glass of milk as thin as rice water. — Go to school quickly.

I hugged the glass and walked out the door. At that moment, a cough from my father in the yard made my heart flutter. Without thinking, I put down the cup, ran across the porch, bumped into my father, and said something so small that I couldn’t believe I said it:

— Tatay, I’m… thirsty.

My father paused. I saw a strange wrinkle in his eyes, as if he almost remembered something and then stopped. He turned back into the house:

— Hon, where’s the water bottle? Why is it locked?

— Ah… just to keep the neighbor’s kids from playing with it. — my stepmother laughed, as light as the wind — I’m worried about the baby. He’s already had his milk.

Dad looked at the cup on the table: a thin layer of foam, white. Dad was silent for a few seconds, his hand touching my bag. Dad gently pulled the zipper — I thought it was an accident — but I saw Dad’s eyes grab the blue-covered notebook. Dad pulled it out, turned a page.

Last night’s rain still soaked into the paper, the words smeared in dark streaks. But enough to see: “Dad… I’m scared…”.

There was no more sound of the morning birds. The house seemed to shrink, leaving only the sound of my heart and Dad’s breathing. Dad looked up, slowly as if he had swallowed a knife:

— Come into the living room. We need to talk. Right now.

The conversation didn’t last long. Stepmother laughed at first, then blushed, then yelled. She said I was lying, said I was rude. Dad didn’t raise his voice. He just opened his phone, dialed Teacher Gemma’s number, which he saved as “Gemma—Adviser G6”. After a few short sentences, Dad hung up, saying:

— Let’s go to the barangay hall. Kap Eddie and Teacher were there. I explained there.

Stepmother froze for a beat. Then she started crying, clutching Dad’s shirt:

— Don’t bring family matters outside! It’s embarrassing! I’m just teaching him!

Dad removed her hand, finger by finger. His eyes looked at me, red as if he had just been drenched in rain:

— Anak, go with Tatay.

The barangay hall at the end of the alley was like another world: white monoblocs lined up, ceiling fans whirring, the smell of 3-in-1 coffee filling the room. Kap Eddie — slightly big-bellied, warm-voiced — leaned over and whispered:

— Huwag kang matakot, anak. Everyone here is on your side.

Teacher Gemma sat next to me, squeezing my hand. Mrs. Aling Nena was there too; she said she had seen me lying in the hallway many times, and when I asked, I just smiled awkwardly. A tanod said that on rainy nights he could still see my house’s lights on until late at night.

The stepmother objected, saying that everyone was “adding salt and pepper”. But the more they talked, the more cracks appeared. Kap asked about breakfast, asked about drinking water, asked why the bottle was locked. Dad didn’t interrupt. He just put the green-covered notebook on the table and gently pushed it towards Kap.

The room fell silent. Occasionally, only the rustling of paper could be heard when Kap turned the pages, and the sound of his child swallowing.

When he reached the last page, where he wrote: “If one day you read this… I tried to be strong. But sometimes I feel like I can’t take it anymore.”, Kap put down his pen and looked straight at his stepmother:

— Ma’am, children don’t write these lines to joke. Here, we have regulations to protect children. For the time being, Sir Roldan will take him to his grandmother’s or his biological mother’s house. We will make a report. Then the DSWD will come in to investigate.

The stepmother collapsed into her chair, her face pale. Dad turned to me and said three words that I would remember for the rest of my life:

— Patawad, anak.

That night, my father and I stood in front of Nanay’s house. The smell of hot ginger tinola seemed to welcome us from the beginning of the alley. Nanay opened the door, and as soon as she saw me, she hugged me tightly, her shoulders shaking as if she had never cried before. My father took a step back.

— I… thank you for opening the door. — my father said, his voice hoarse. — I didn’t see what I needed to see.

Nanay didn’t blame me. She just said:

— Come and eat. When children are hungry, they say it first, then blame me later.

A simple meal: white rice, chicken tinola, a plate of stir-fried puso ng saging. My father picked up a piece of thigh for me, Nanay scooped me more soup. Spoon by spoon, my hungry stomach quieted down, my heart quieted down too. I looked up and saw my father looking at me with the same eyes as before, when I was little, sitting on a jeepney and my father shielded my head from the sun.

— Tomorrow, Tatay is taking a leave. — my father said. — I will work with the DSWD, with the school, with Kap. From now on, no one will make me lie in the hallway anymore. No one will turn off my water anymore. No one will force me to choose between you and my life. Hindi puwede iyon. (That is unacceptable.)

I couldn’t say anything. I just reached out and held my father’s hand. Nanay’s hand rested on both of theirs, like a small bridge over the years of collapse.

A few days later, the second pulong-pulong (meeting) at the barangay took place. My stepmother came, her face haggard. She mumbled an apology. She said she was traumatized by a deprived childhood, that she couldn’t control herself when she panicked. Kap took note, but emphasized, “Sorry doesn’t erase the behavior. Here, we prioritize bata’s safety.” The DSWD laid out a roadmap: psychological counseling for the whole family, regular monitoring, and a temporary protective order to keep me away from the person who scared me, until a specialist confirmed my safety.

My father agreed. Dad also admitted his fault: he had been so easy-going that he was blind. “I thought a smile at dinner was enough,” he said, “it turns out that sometimes a smile is a curtain.”

I looked at Dad and saw a man relearning how to make Tatay: learning to listen, learning to look deeply, learning to say “sorry” and “thank you.”

In the evening, Nanay made cocoa tablea and pushed the cup towards me:

— Drink, anak. A little sweet to get rid of the bitterness.

I hugged the cup, the hot air hitting my nose. Outside, the tricycles were whirring, the dogs were barking, the neighbors were calling each other to buy pan de sal. Daily life passed by, but my heart suddenly felt light, as if someone had opened a secret door.

I took out the green-covered notebook and opened a new page. This time, I didn’t start with “Dad… I’m scared.” I wrote:

“Dad, I am learning to speak out loud. I have Tatay, I have Nanay, I have people in the barangay and at school who are on my side. I will not lie in the hallway anymore. I will lie in my bed, under the kulambo that Nanay has hung, drinking a full glass of water before I sleep.

If you happen to read this one day, please believe me: I am not just trying to be strong — I am growing up, with the love of you, of mom, and of this whole little neighborhood.”

In the corner of the page, I drew three hands holding each other: one of Dad’s, one of Nanay’s, and my little hand in the middle. Salamat, life — for teaching me that love is not about choosing sides, but standing together for what is right