I once held a strange baby in my arms and called him “my child” from the very first moment. I once took out exactly sixteen thousand pesos—the largest sum of money I had ever held in my life—to take him away from his biological parents. I dare not say that I did the most right thing in the world, but at that moment, amidst the hoarse cries of a hungry baby and the desperate looks of the young couple, I only thought: “If I don’t hold him now, who will hold him to sleep tonight? Who will feed him the first spoonful of porridge tomorrow?”

I named my child Maya.

Back then, people around me whispered. They said, “I adopted someone else’s child, what if there will be trouble later?” I laughed bitterly: “They bought a cabinet and a bed to keep the house clean. I bought a little heartbeat to live with.” It sounded like that, but in fact I was poor. A meal sometimes consisted of just a plate of boiled kangkong with patis and siling labuyo. I sold vegetables in palengke near Barangay Tatalon (Quezon City), woke up at three in the morning, still dark, and rode my bicycle to bagsakan in Balintawak, my hands were freezing, my face was chapped from the wind. But at night, I was still gentle enough to wash Maya’s hair with gugo water dried from the good sunshine, and patient enough to lull her to sleep, counting to a hundred without sighing.

Maya grew up in a small eskinita that always smelled of the sun drying clothes. Her skin became whiter every day, the whiteness of full meals, of warm sleep. She spoke politely, knowing how to say yes and no. Sometimes, Maya sat in front of the door, folding paper cranes and giving them to me, saying: “Mom put them in her purse, if she gets tired, open them and blow them so the cranes can fly.” Hearing her say that, I laughed until tears came to my eyes, feeling the cracks in my heart gradually heal.

I never dared to think of the day I would have to leave Maya. But the incident did not knock on the door with human voices. It came with a medical certificate, with a gentle shake of the head from the doctor, with nights of coughing so hard that I sat up in the middle of the night, clutching my chest to breathe. Selling vegetables was easy but long-term, one day off meant two days without rice. I pawned whatever I could pawn, borrowed from whomever I could borrow. Finally, on a drizzly afternoon, I took off my last pair of wedding earrings—the only souvenir of a long-lost marriage—and placed them on the table of the pawn shop at the corner of EDSA.

The medicine cost a lot. The days of treatment were as long as a road with no end. I knew I was about to collapse. I thought of Maya as a shoulder to lean on, but then I realized: if I left her by my side, I would drag her into the same misery. I chose the most painful way: to go to Maya’s biological parents.

They had changed houses, the iron gate painted green, a muddy raincoat hanging in the yard—a house in San Jose del Monte, Bulacan. The mother looked at me through the window as if looking at an old acquaintance whose name was hard to name. I took a sip of water, knelt down in the yard, the wind blew against my neck, my voice broke: “Take my child back to me. I am sick, I am afraid I cannot bear it. Leaving my child with me now is a sin.”

They were silent for a long time. Finally, the man said softly: “Okay. You bring her back here. When she is well… then we will think about it.”

I carried Maya into the twilight, the sky as gray as a wrung-out towel. She hugged my neck, her lips trembling: “I am not going anywhere.” I softened my voice: “Listen, Mom. Just stay with Mom and Dad for a while, when I am done, I will take you home.” No one told me that a “time” could be as long as a lifetime. I also did not tell my child that my promise of “I will take you home” was the only rope to keep me from falling, yet it was as fragile as a hair.

The day I let my child out of my arms, I realized how heavy my heart was.

Then came the scary months. I sought treatment, lulling myself to sleep every night by imagining Maya wearing her school bag every morning and coming home for hot rice and soup at noon. I passed by the grocery store, saw a pink butterfly hair clip and wanted to buy one, telling myself that I would put it on her hair that smelled of gugo when I saw her the next day. But every time I went to the gate of that house, I lacked the courage. Sometimes I told myself, “Let her get better first,” and sometimes I was afraid of being told I was bothering her. I called a few times, and the mother mumbled that her child was still going to school. I believed it. Because I needed something to believe in, like needing a bowl of porridge in the morning to have enough strength to go to palengke.

Then one day, the fishmonger put a newspaper on the tray, and said   :

“It’s raining, sit down and rest for a while.” I saw a photo of a child sleeping huddled next to a pigsty somewhere, under the short caption “girl locked up with pigs, neighbors report to the authorities.” I closed the newspaper immediately. I felt my insides churning as if someone had twisted them.

A voice suddenly popped up in my head: “Go.”

I drove my bike to the gate of that green house before lunchtime. The gate was unlocked. The yard was muddy, water had pooled in small puddles. The pigsty was built in the corner, the mesh walls rustling. I heard the breathing of the big animal, the rustling of straw. And in a corner of the sty, surrounded by the stench, Maya lay, curled up like a wet cat, her heels covered in dirt.

I don’t remember how I got through that mud. I only remember the hand pulling my chest, making me choke. “Maya!”—my child’s name burst from my throat like a cry for help. The little girl blinked, looked at me for a few seconds, then jumped up, hugging my neck tightly. “Mom… Mom…” Her voice was hoarse and thin as a thread.

I understood what it meant to be in so much pain that there were no more tears left to shed. But the tears still flowed, not drop by drop, but like a stream. I carried Maya out, her feet sliding in the mud, her thin T-shirt clinging to her body. I rubbed my hands on her back, just wanting to wipe away everything that life had smeared on her skin.

The biological mother walked out, her face expressionless. She looked at me holding Maya, sniffed: “She’s naughty, she runs in there to sleep, who can take care of her?” I looked up, trying to say softly: “I’m sorry… I’m taking her back. Leaving her here, she’s suffering too much.” She pursed her lips, probably feeling annoyed but not really remorseful. The man standing behind added a perfunctory sentence: “Then you take care of her. We’re still busy with work.”

I hugged Maya and left so quickly that I was afraid that if I was a beat slower, someone would change their mind.

On the way home, Maya leaned her head on my shoulder, the smell of sweat mixed with the smell of mud and something very familiar—the smell of the old days, the smell of cotton pillows, the smell of gugo dried on a charcoal stove. I thought she would ask a thousand “why” questions, but Maya only whispered: “Mom, don’t leave me this time.” My nose felt so sore that it was numb. I swallowed a promise, which I knew was the most serious promise of my life: “Mom, I won’t leave you again.”

My house was still the old attic in Quezon City, the paint on the side wall peeling off to the point where the cement veins were visible. I washed Maya with warm water, bit by bit, as if I was washing away a dream. Maya sat still on the plastic chair, her deep black eyes staring at me without blinking. I asked her what she liked to eat. Maya shook her head. I remembered the old days, Maya loved sinigang na hipon—sour to the point of tears but still smiling. That day, I cooked a simple pot of tomato egg soup, and served it in a rose-colored bowl. Maya held the spoon very slowly, as if on guard. The first spoonful went into her mouth, and she suddenly burst into tears.

“Go ahead and cry,” I said, shaking my hand as I put the spoon down. “After you’re done crying, we’ll eat again.”

That night, Maya slept fitfully. She woke up in the middle of the night, clutching my hand as if she was afraid I would disappear. I didn’t sleep either. I listened to the rain pattering on the tin roof, and the wind blowing through the peeling paint on the wall. I realized that my house, though poor, still had enough room for two people and a breakfast of two crispy pandesals.

The next day, I took Maya to buy a white uniform shirt. Maya was thin, and her shirt hung down like a thin paper flower. The salesgirl said, “She’s pretty.” I nodded, feeling warmth on my chest. In the afternoon, I tied Maya’s hair with a green cloth string, tying it into a tiny knot as if to tie off every possible danger. Maya looked at herself in the dim mirror and smiled, a shy smile like a flower that had not yet fully bloomed.

I took Maya back to school. The teacher asked many questions, her eyes half worried and half happy. I said little, just enough to ask the teacher to let Maya sit at the front desk, so that she wouldn’t have to try too hard. She understood. Whether people blamed her or not, at this time it was smaller than Maya being able to sit peacefully in a classroom.

At night, we spread out a mat and sat in the middle of the house. I opened the old wooden box, inside were the small things I had always kept: the first lucky money Maya received during the Vietnamese New Year in the labor area, the old ribbon, the old paper crane that she had folded, worn and yellowed. Maya held the crane, blew gently. She smiled and said, “The crane doesn’t fly anymore.” I touched her hand and said, “It’s okay. Let’s fold another one, give it new wings.”

There is one thing I dare to say quietly: that a long time ago, I forgave myself. It’s not that I forgot, but I realized that forgiveness is also a way of making amends. I was silent for too long in the face of the signs, I believed too easily in the words “going to school well” over the phone. I chose a painful solution because of my desperation. But I can do something else today: stay.

One afternoon, Maya followed me to the palengke, sat inside the vegetable stall, and watched people passing by. My daughter helped me tie a bundle of water spinach, calling out, “Uncle, please buy some vegetables.” Her voice was clear and round, reminding me of the old days like a movie rewinding. A vegetable buyer asked, “Is that your child?” I no longer stuttered. I said, “Yes, my child.” After saying that, tears stung at the corners of my eyes, and I had to turn away for a second.

Many nights, Maya would startle me with a voice of fear—a fear that had no name, the fear one feels when a door slams in one’s face. I would sit up, hold her, and tell her the story of a stray white cat, and then find my way home because of the familiar smell of grilled fish cakes at the corner of the barangay. Maya listened, her breathing evened out. I would rub her back, thinking of that day in the pigsty as a storm had passed and left the roof dented. It took time to fix the roof. But it could be fixed.

Sometimes I would think of the sixteen thousand pesos from that year. Some people would say I was foolish, why would I pay that much? I would answer, “I didn’t buy a baby. I bought the chance to be its mother.” The money paid, right or wrong—I wasn’t sure. But I knew that from the first day I carried Maya home, I had gained something more precious: the ability to live as a person who had a reason to wake up early, to eat a hot meal, and to believe that tomorrow was worth waiting for.

I also think a lot about that young couple. I can’t choose differently for them. I just hope that if one day they remember Maya, they will remember her with a gentler feeling than with guilt. Because hatred doesn’t raise anyone. As for me, I am busy raising a child who needs to grow up.

People tell a story and then conclude it with a lesson. I don’t know what the lesson of my story is. Maybe it’s: don’t test a child with the absence of an adult. Maybe it’s: don’t push a mother into a dead end and then blame her for choosing a thorny path. Maybe it’s: when it comes to “mother,” there is no such thing as “temporary.”

I’m not writing these lines to ask for pity. I just want to keep a drizzly afternoon, a green painted door in Bulacan, a rusty corner of a pigsty, and the call “Mom” that revived the best part of me. I also want to say to those who are struggling: When you think you have lost everything, sometimes you only need to take one step back to see the path.

This morning, I stroked Maya’s hair in front of the mirror. Her hair was neatly tied, her white shirt was flat, her eye sockets were less dark. She was wearing a backpack whose strap I had fixed with a dark blue parachute cord. Before going out the door, Maya turned back: “Mom, do you want to eat palabok this afternoon?” I laughed: “Eat.” “Then I will.” “No, let me make it for you.” Maya shook her head: “Let me make it for you. The white crane can fly.”

I was stunned for a second, seeing a thin ray of sunlight drifting through the window, landing on her sparse hair. I wanted to hold her in my arms one more time, without needing a reason. But I held back, only saying: “Go to school.” She walked out the door, her figure slender but steady. I stood there longer than usual, my back against the wall, my hand still warm from holding her hand before she left the house.

Maybe people will talk forever about how I once “bought” my child. Maybe someone will forever remember the image of a child curled up in a pigsty. For me, the story begins from the moment my child called me mom once more. Everything before that was just a challenge for us to be able to stand next to each other today.

And if one day, Maya is old enough to read these lines, she will understand: Sixteen thousand pesos is not her price. That is the bridge I risked my life to build between one bank of loneliness and the other bank of maternal love. The bridge sometimes rotted, sometimes tilted, sometimes about to collapse. But she crossed it, with all her heart.

I know, we will no longer dream of pigsties. We will dream of a sunny drying yard, where the paper cranes Maya folded fluttered on the clothesline like a flock of little birds. I will teach her how to tie the safety rope of each dream. She will teach me how to forgive the lost days.

In the afternoon, I put on a pot of gugo. In the cramped kitchen, the gentle aroma spread out, touching the dark corners, bringing everything back to its gentle form. I heard the click of the gate lock, the sound of Maya’s shoes running into the house. “Mom, I’m home!” I turned around, smiling: “I’m home with you, my child.” And I knew that the promise that day—”I won’t leave you again”—had become a normal breathing rhythm, ready to accompany mother and child for the rest of the journey.