My biological mother and husband left home, taking all their savings with them, leaving only a piece of paper with a brief message in the safe…
In a barangay on the outskirts of Bulacan province, the Mang Ramon family is known for being kind and gentle, running a small sari-sari stall in front of their house. His daughter, Lani, just turned 19, is pretty and well-behaved. After more than a year of dating, Lani decided to marry Jun — a 20-year-old motorbike repairman in the area, quick-witted but somewhat impulsive.

Lani’s mother, Aling Rosa, is only 40 years old but looks younger and dresses more stylishly than her daughter. Many people joke that “mother and daughter are like sisters,” but Lani still believes that her mother is a serious person who would never do anything against morality.

The wedding day was bustling in the covered court of the barangay. After the wedding, Jun moved in with his wife’s family. Everything seemed peaceful until one morning, Lani woke up and found her mother and husband gone. The safe had been broken into, and all the family savings – more than 1.3 million pesos – were gone.

Both of their phones were out of range. On the kitchen table, there was only a piece of paper with a few scribbled words

“Sorry, we love each other. Don’t look for us.”

The news spread throughout the barangay, with everyone shocked and angry. Ramon had gone from a calm man to a sullen, sickly man in just a few weeks. Lani had lost her husband, her mother, and all her possessions – she was left penniless at the age of 19.

Months later, someone said they saw Aling Rosa and Jun opening a carinderia in a neighboring province (I heard it was Pampanga), living together as husband and wife. When Lani heard the news, she just smiled faintly:

“A person who chooses to betray is no longer your relative.”

Their story became the talk of the village for years — a reminder that sometimes, the most painful betrayals come from the places you trust the most.

PART 2 — “The Notice Posted on the Door”

Three months after the escape, the habagat season swept through Bulacan with gray rains. The sari-sari stall in front of Mang Ramon’s house closed earlier than usual. He lay in his hammock, coughing and looking thinner. Lani got up at four in the morning to help with the pan de sal bakery at the end of the barangay, and at noon she sold kakanin on the porch to pay for her father’s medicine.

People still whispered as they passed by:

“She’s good, but why is her fate so miserable…”

“Aling Rosa and Jun must be doing well now!”

Lani didn’t answer. She learned to be quiet, collecting every penny, occasionally looking at the broken-in safe, her heart aching. Not because of the money — but because of the words “Sorry, we love each other. Don’t look for each other.”

1) The pale yellow paper

One rainy afternoon, the Kapitan of the barangay brought a pale yellow paper, pasted directly on the wooden door:

“NOTICE OF DEBT REMINDER” from a finance company in San Fernando, Pampanga. Attached was a copy of the “loan paper” with a scrawled signature that looked very similar to… Mang Ramon.

He jumped up, pale:
— I never signed this.

The Lupon (mediation team) was called in. The barangay tanod took the minutes. It all came down to one point: the signature was forged, the house’s title deed had been mortgaged. The form was signed by Jun as the “family representative”, the contact person was Rosa.

Lani held her father’s hand tightly:
— I won’t lose the house, Tay.
(“Tay” — she called her father as many Bulacans do.)Standing up from the porch

The next morning, Lani asked to join the cooperative’s small-loan women’s group in the barangay. Nanay Tasing — the woman who sold fishballs at the entrance of the alley — brought a stack of old pots:

“Use it to cook lugaw, my child. Hot porridge is expensive on rainy nights.”

Lani opened the pot of lugaw & tokwa’t baboy on the porch, and at night she added a grill to grill inihaw. The whole alley was cramped but fragrant. The profit wasn’t much, but it was enough for her to scrape together a jeepney to go to San Fernando to find the trail.

3) “Rosa’s Lutong-Bahay”

In the midday sun of Pampanga, Lani stood frozen in front of the old corrugated iron sign: “Rosa’s Lutong-Bahay”. Inside, a woman in an apron was flipping sinigang, sweat beading on her temples. Aling Rosa. In the corner of the kitchen, Jun counted money, his mask pulled up to his chin, smiling at the tricycle drivers.

Lani walked in, ordering a portion of kare-kare. When Rosa looked up, the ladle stopped in the air.

— Lani… — her voice trembled as if it was about to break.

Jun threw the stack of money on the table:
— There is no “old family” here anymore. What do you want?

Lani put the debt collection notice and the barangay blotter on the table:
— Return the red book. And come out and solve it. Don’t hide behind the stove anymore.

Rosa looked at her daughter, her eyes red. Jun snapped:
— You have no proof that we have the red book.

Lani calmly unzipped her bag and took out her old phone. The screen showed a photo taken from Google Photos the day they disappeared — Jun held the red folder, Rosa stood next to the safe door. (That day, Rosa accidentally borrowed Lani’s phone to take a selfie in the mirror — the photo automatically went to the cloud.)

— Enough evidence? — Lani looked straight at Jun. — Tomorrow afternoon, at your Barangay Hall. If not, I will submit it directly to the PNP.

4) The Conciliation

The next afternoon, Lupon Tagapamayapa was packed with people. Kapitan banged the gavel. Rosa tremblingly placed the red book cover on the table. Jun curled his lips:
— I borrowed it to invest. Business, there are risks and losses.

Mang Ramon sat down, clutching his chest, coughing violently. Lani stood in front of his father:
— You borrowed it with a fake signature. You lied to my mother, lied to my whole family. This house is my father’s house, not a card for you to bet

PART 2 — “The Notice Posted on the Door”

Three months after the escape, the habagat season swept through Bulacan with gray rains. The sari-sari stall in front of Mang Ramon’s house closed earlier than usual. He lay in his hammock, coughing and looking thinner. Lani got up at four in the morning to help with the pan de sal bakery at the end of the barangay, and at noon she sold kakanin on the porch to pay for her father’s medicine.

People still whispered as they passed by:

“She’s good, but why is her fate so miserable…”

“Aling Rosa and Jun must be doing well now!”

Lani didn’t answer. She learned to be quiet, collecting every penny, occasionally looking at the broken-in safe, her heart aching. Not because of the money — but because of the words “Sorry, we love each other. Don’t look for each other.”

One rainy afternoon, the Kapitan of the barangay brought a pale yellow piece of paper, pasted directly on the wooden door:

“NOTICE OF DEBT REMINDER” from a finance company in San Fernando, Pampanga. Attached was a copy of the “loan paper” with a scrawled signature that looked very much like… Mang Ramon.

He jumped up, pale:

“I never signed this.”

The lupon (mediation team) was called. The barangay tanod took the minutes. It all came down to one point: the signature was forged, the house’s title had been mortgaged. The form had Jun as the “family representative,” and Rosa was the contact person.

Lani held her father’s hand tightly:

“I won’t lose my house, Tay.”

“Tay” — she called her father in the way many Bulacans did.)Rising from the porch

The next morning, Lani applied to join the women’s small-scale loan group of the barangay cooperative. Nanay Tasing — the fishball seller at the entrance of the alley — brought a stack of old pots:

“Use it to cook lugaw, my child. Hot porridge is expensive on rainy days.”

Lani opened the pot of lugaw & tokwa’t baboy on the porch, and at night she added an inihaw grill. The whole alley was cramped but fragrant. The profit wasn’t much, but it was enough for her to scrape together a jeepney to go to San Fernando to find the trail.

In the midday sun of Pampanga, Lani stood frozen in front of an old tin sign: “Rosa’s Lutong-Bahay”. Inside, a woman in an apron was flipping sinigang, sweat beading on her temples. Aling Rosa. In the corner of the kitchen, Jun counted money, her mask pulled up to her chin, smiling at the tricycle drivers.

Lani walked in, ordering a portion of kare-kare. When Rosa looked up, the ladle stopped in the air.

— Lani… — her voice trembled as if about to break.

Jun threw the stack of money on the table:
— There is no “old family” here. What do you want?

Lani put the debt collection notice and the barangay blotter on the table:
— Return the red book. And come out and solve it. Don’t hide behind the kitchen anymore.

Rosa looked at her daughter, her eyes red. Jun snapped:
— You have no evidence that we have the red book.

Lani calmly unzipped her bag and took out her old phone. The screen showed a photo taken from Google Photos the day they disappeared — Jun was holding the red file folder, Rosa was standing next to the safe door. (That day, Rosa accidentally borrowed Lani’s phone to use the mirror to take a selfie — the photo automatically went to the cloud.)

— Is there enough evidence? — Lani looked straight at Jun. — Tomorrow afternoon, at your Barangay Hall. If not, I will file a claim with the PNP.

Kapitan turned to Rosa:
— Do you confirm that you and he got the red book?

Rosa was silent for a long time, then nodded. She burst into tears:
— I thought… that was the only way to have a “better” life. I was wrong.

Lupon made a record: Rosa committed to returning the red book, Jun signed to accept civil responsibility related to the loan. Deadline for paying the ransom: 30 days. Otherwise, the file will be transferred to the investigation agency because of signs of forged signatures and abuse of trust.

Leaving the Barangay Hall, Jun growled at Rosa:
— You dare to turn your back on me?

Rosa collapsed on the steps, looking at her daughter:
— If you give… me a chance, I will do it, I will pay… every penny.

Lani looked at her father who was sitting panting under the shade of the santol tree. She spoke slowly:
— I pay my debt, I face my neighbors, face myself. This house is open to those who repent, not to those who continue to lie.

Those thirty days were a race. Lani cooked lugaw all night, got up in the morning to sell pan de sal, and mixed pancit for Tita Beth’s restaurant in the afternoon. Nanay Tasing helped by the charcoal stove, and the barangay children helped wrap sumán. People brought crumpled bills and put them in a green alkansiya jar.

Ramon also rummaged under the bed and pulled out a wooden box with broken hinges:

Mom and I saved money for a long time, in case of need. Dad hid it… for the day you needed it.

On the 27th day, Rosa brought a cloth bag:

This is Mom’s share. Mom works as a dishwasher in two restaurants. Mom sold her last necklace.

Lani didn’t touch the bag. She took it all to the finance company in San Fernando. The cashier counted it over and over again, nodding. The red book was removed from the file, wrapped in brown paper. When Lani’s hand touched the red cover, she felt as if she had lifted a heavy, cold stone that had been pressing on her chest for months.

That night, Rosa stood on the porch, watching her daughter light the fire. She said very softly: “I dare not ask for your forgiveness. But if you need someone to look after the sari-sari, take care of Tatay, I… can stay on the porch, even sleep on the couch.”

Lani looked at her mother’s hands, the new burns still red. She took a deep breath:
— Mom can’t live in the same house. Mom will temporarily stay in the old storage room in the back. Every day you work, you pay. When you finish paying… then we can talk about forgiveness.

Rosa nodded, bursting into tears. In the corner of the porch, Mang Ramon turned away slightly, wiping the corner of his eyes with his hand.

And Jun? After the reconciliation, he disappeared. People rumored to have seen him in Olongapo, running after a “fast-paced” group. Lani didn’t look for him. The Barangay had transferred the documents and the commitment to the old PNP for storage. She chose to stand in the kitchen, stand at the counter, and stand next to her father.

A week later, while Lani was counting her change, her phone vibrated. A message from the bank:

“OTP for online loan of 150,000 PHP in the name of Lani Ramon — valid for 5 minutes.”

She was stunned. The house suddenly darkened like a storm cloud approaching. A minute later, the screen lit up: An unknown number was calling. On the other end, a young woman’s voice, panicked:
— Ate Lani… I’m Mika from Olongapo. Jun used your papers… And one more thing — I… I’m pregnant.

Out in the yard, the habagat rain was pouring down on the tin roof. Lani gripped the phone tightly. She looked at the land title deed on the table—the cover was still warm—then at the wooden gate. The road ahead was long and muddy, but at least… she knew how to walk.

— To be continued—