“Kahapon sa school, nakita ko si Mama. Sabi niya, huwag na raw akong sumama sa’yo,” bulong ng anak ko. Kinabukasan, maaga ko siyang sinundo—at ang nakita ko’y gumulo sa buong mundo ko…”

It was a Thursday afternoon like any other in Quezon City. The school bell rang at 3:30 p.m., and I stood among the crowd of parents waiting outside the gates of San Antonio Elementary School.

My seven-year-old son, Enzo, came running out, his Spider-Man backpack bouncing on his shoulders, and a wide grin lighting up his face.

“Hey, champ,” I said as I knelt to hug him.

But then, his smile disappeared.

He looked at me with confusion.
“Papa… nakita ko si Mama kanina.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut.

I blinked, struggling to stay calm. “What do you mean, Enzo?”

He frowned, trying to recall everything.
“Nandoon siya sa may bakod. Kumakaway. Tapos sabi niya, ‘’Wag ka nang sumama kay Papa.’”

My mouth turned dry. My wife, Clarisse, had died two years ago in a car crash along EDSA. The grief never fully left either of us, though Enzo was only five at the time. I often wondered how much he remembered, or perhaps chose to forget.

“Anak… sigurado ka bang si Mama iyon?”

He nodded firmly. “’Yung buhok niya. ’Yung boses. Siya talaga. Tinawag niya pa ako sa pangalan ko. Pero tinawag ako ng teacher kaya hindi ako nakalapit.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Maybe he saw someone who looked like her. Or maybe it was just a child’s imagination. But something in the way he said it… unnerved me deeply.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Enzo dozed off after dinner, but I sat alone in the living room, staring at the photo on the altar—the last photo of us as a family, taken on a beach trip in Batangas just three months before the accident.

The next morning, I called the school and told them I’d pick Enzo up early. I didn’t explain. My gut told me something was wrong.

At 2:15 p.m., I waited by the big acacia tree near the school’s main gate. Parents and guardians passed by—tricycle drivers, yayas, some grandparents.

Then, at exactly 2:34 p.m., I saw her.

Across the street. Half-hidden behind a tinted SUV.

But I saw her face clearly.

Clarisse.

My world stopped.

She looked exactly the same—same long hair, same white shawl she always wore when visiting church on Sundays. This wasn’t a lookalike. This wasn’t imagination. It was her.

She glanced around, then locked eyes with me.

Panic crossed her face. She turned and ran.

“Clarisse!” I shouted, weaving through the crowd. I ran across the street, narrowly missing a food delivery rider. But when I reached the other side, she was gone.

I checked every corner. The nearby alley behind the sari-sari store. Even inside the school’s waiting shed.

Nothing.

When I picked up Enzo, the school secretary asked, “Mr. Dela Cruz, is everything okay?”

I forced a smile. “I just wanted extra time with my son.”

In the car, Enzo whispered, “Si Mama… hindi siya dumating ngayon.”

I gripped the steering wheel tighter.

That night, I pulled out the documents—Clarisse’s death certificate, police report, hospital records. All of it confirmed what I already knew: she died on Commonwealth Avenue. Her car had flipped. The scene was horrific.

But when I reviewed the autopsy, something disturbed me—identification was made using dental records, not visual confirmation.

A cold chill crawled down my spine.

Was it even her in the casket?

I contacted Retired Detective Teresa Salazar, who led the investigation back then. We met at a coffee shop in Pasig.

After I told her everything, she looked down and said:
“There’s something I never told you before. I always felt uneasy about your wife’s case.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we found several calls on her phone—to an unregistered burner number. And two weeks before the crash, she withdrew ₱1 million in cash. Quietly. No trail.”

I froze. “I had no idea.”

“I didn’t want to add to your grief back then. The body was badly burned. We used dental records. But I’ve seen mistakes happen…”

“You think she’s alive?”

“I’m saying I wouldn’t rule it out. I’ve seen people fake deaths for far less.”

I left the café shaken. If she faked her death… why?
Why would Clarisse disappear and leave me and her son?

That night, I gently asked Enzo, “Anak, nung nakita mo si Mama… may sinabi pa ba siya?”

He nodded. “Sabi niya, miss na miss na niya ako. Tapos, sabi niya, ‘Si Papa… hindi nagsasabi ng totoo.’”

My heart stopped. “Anong ibig niyang sabihin?”

“Hindi ko alam. Sabi lang niya, next time… sumama na raw ako sa kanya.”

I broke into a sweat.

She wasn’t just watching. She wanted to take him.

The next day, I instructed the school: No one else is allowed to pick up Enzo. Ever. I handed them photos. I stayed home from work. I barely ate.

Then I remembered—Clarisse had a cousin, Melanie, a black sheep in the family. She was known to be involved in shady dealings. I dug through old contacts, and after several leads, I got an address—a remote house in Tanay, Rizal.

The next day, I drove there, parking a few hundred meters away.

Through a window, I saw her.

Clarisse.

She was sitting at a table, holding a picture of Enzo.

I knocked.

She froze.

She slowly opened the door just enough to whisper, “Marco…”

“You’re alive,” I said, stunned.

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “I had no choice.”

“You let us bury you.”

“There were people. Dangerous people. I got involved in something. They threatened me… you… and our son. I had to vanish.”

I stared at her. “You could’ve told me. Trusted me.”

“I couldn’t risk it. They were everywhere. Even inside the force.”

“And now? You plan to take Enzo?”

“I couldn’t stay away,” she cried. “I just want to protect him.”

“You’re not taking him,” I said firmly. “You left.”

“He’s my son too!”

“And he needs stability. You watching him from fences isn’t love—it’s trauma.”

She collapsed in a chair, sobbing.

In the end, I didn’t turn her in. Not yet. I gave her a phone, told her to stay there. We would figure something out—for Enzo.

But I knew deep inside—nothing would ever be the same again.

There were still people she feared. People who might come.

Enzo still asks about her.

And now… I tell him the truth.

His mother didn’t die. She got lost. And now we’re all trying to find our way back