My Stepfather Burned My College Admission Letter — I Hated Him for 15 Years, Until I Found What He Left Behind

I will never forget that fateful afternoon when I was 18. The golden rays of sunset shone through the window, illuminating the college admission letter—the very school I had dreamed of for so many years. My hands trembled as I held it, tears of happiness streaming down my face. For the first time, I felt I had done something worthy for my mother, something that could redeem a childhood filled with hardship.

But only a few hours later, that letter turned into ashes before my eyes.

Mang Ernesto, my stepfather, looked at me silently, then lit a match and set the paper on fire. I screamed, tried to snatch it back, but it was too late. He turned away indifferently, leaving me kneeling on the floor, my hands reeking of burnt paper.

From that moment, I planted hatred deep in my heart. For 15 years, I never called him “father”. I never looked him in the eye, never sat at the same table if he was present. The very next day, I left home. My mother called, cried, begged, but I slammed the door shut on the past.

A Life Away From Home

With no money in my pocket, I had to set aside my dream of attending that prestigious college. I worked odd jobs, scraping by. A year later, I took another entrance exam and managed to enroll in a different school. Not as prestigious, but still a university.

I graduated, moved to the city, and worked tirelessly until I could afford my own small condo. Yet through all those years, I never once returned home. Sometimes my mother called, saying that Mang Ernesto had grown weak, barely eating anything. But I stayed silent. To me, he was still the man who killed my dream, the man who had robbed me of the path my life should have taken.

The Call From My Mother

Last month, my mother called again, her voice trembling:
– “Son… he’s gone. He had a stroke while sweeping the yard. Will you come home?”

I said nothing, just hung up. That night, I drank alone. I didn’t cry, didn’t feel joy or sorrow—only emptiness. The hatred I had carried for so long seemed to dissolve somewhere between the bitter taste of alcohol and silence.

Returning Home

A few days later, I returned. The old house in Batangas looked even more worn down. My mother was thinner, her hair almost completely white. She embraced me, tears streaming down her face. For the first time in years, I let her hold me.

After dinner, she led me to a small room and handed me a wooden box.
– “What you need to know is inside. Open it.”

She left me alone. Slowly, I lifted the lid. Inside were old magazines containing articles I had written back in high school, a booklet of admission information from when I was 18, and a weathered notebook.

The Buried Truth

On the first page of the notebook, scrawled words: “Diary – For the boy who never calls me Father.”

My hands trembled as I turned the pages:

“Today he received his admission letter. He smiled. The first time I’ve ever seen him smile so brightly…”

“I burned the letter. I’m a terrible man. But the tuition was too high. Even if we sold our cow, it wouldn’t be enough. If he went, his mother would be forced into debt. I was scared. I chose the cruelest way—to kill his dream—so he could live without that burden.”

“He hates me. I know. But if I had to choose again, I would do the same. I’d rather be hated than watch him suffer, or watch my wife crushed by debt. I’m useless. Since the scaffolding accident, I’ve been sick and weak. If only I had stayed healthy, things would have been different.”

Tears blurred my vision. I had known about his accident years ago, but I never realized it left him with hidden illness. Back then, I thought he was lazy for staying home, letting my mother shoulder everything. I judged him harshly, called him less of a man. But the truth was—he bore the pain in silence, carrying love in the only way he knew: harsh, rough, and misunderstood.

The First Time I Called Him “Father”

Clutching the notebook, I went downstairs. My mother was washing dishes. I asked softly:
– “Mom… how long have you known about this?”

She paused, then answered:
– “Only recently. I also thought he resented you. After you left, he never said a word. Our house became silent. I never understood him until I found his things.”

My throat tightened.
– “If only… he had said something.”

She nodded, eyes glistening:
– “If only. But he was that kind of man. No matter how much he suffered, he never complained. He carried it all alone.”

That night, I sat before his altar. For the first time in my life, I whispered:
– “Father…”

Those two words lodged in my throat, breaking the dam. Years of bitterness poured out as tears.

The Legacy of a Stepfather

I once thought some people enter our lives only to leave us with wounds. But now I know: some wounds are born from love—love so clumsy and silent that it hurts more than it heals.

My stepfather, Mang Ernesto, was one of those men. Rough in his ways, but carrying sacrifices too heavy to speak aloud.

And after all these years, I finally called him by the most sacred name: Father.