Ten years ago, the coastal village where I lived was shaken by the news that my mother – a woman known for her industriousness and kindness – suddenly abandoned her husband and children to run away with Don Vicente – the richest landowner in the area.

At that time, I was only 10 years old, and my younger brother was just 4. My father died early of liver disease, leaving only the three of us in the family.

However, one morning, my mother left a short note:

“I’m sorry, I can’t endure this poverty forever. I will live the life I deserve.”

Not a single tear, not a single goodbye hug. She disappeared.

I was stunned. My younger brother stood rooted to the spot.

That woman… was my mother.

Now, before my eyes was still that face, but much more haggard, her hair was gray, her eyes were full of wrinkles. She was no longer the proud woman she once was. She stammered:

– Mga… mga anak… are you really my children?

I didn’t answer. My brother stepped back, his eyes red.

The man standing next to my mother – a wealthy businessman who invested in mineral exploitation in the province – looked at her and then at us:

– She has been working as a maid in my family for 3 years. I didn’t know about it until I accidentally read an old job application… with our names in the “kamag-anak” (relatives) section that she had hidden carefully in the closet.

The atmosphere froze. My mother trembled as she walked towards me, intending to touch my hand, but I stepped back.

– It’s been ten years, where have you been?

– Mom… you’re wrong. Don Vicente only kept you as an object, then abandoned you after 3 years. You didn’t dare come back because you were ashamed…

I pursed my lips. So many years of bitterness, poverty, and humiliation, can you now just sum it up in two words “shame”?

Suddenly, my brother approached and placed a small piece of paper in her hand. It was a photo of the two of us as children, dirty and dirty, hugging and sleeping in a makeshift tent on the beach after the storm.

“Remember, Mom. That’s what you left behind. I don’t know if it’s easy to forgive… but you weren’t there during our hellish years.”

After saying that, he turned away without another word.

I looked at my mother and said softly:

“You don’t need to be a maid anymore. Sir Eduardo has taken us in. Live a good life… that’s enough.”

We walked into the villa by the bay, leaving the woman kneeling in the middle of the yard, her hands trembling as she held the photo. And I knew… there were wounds that could never heal completely even with the passage of time. But perhaps, all we needed was a chance… to not make the same mistake again.