Pagkatapos ng libing ng aking asawa, inihatid ako ng aking anak sa gilid ng bayan at sinabing, “Dito ka bumaba, Nay.” Hindi ka na namin kayang suportahan. Pero may lihim akong dala-dala na pinagsisisihan ng unfilial son.

After my husband’s funeral, my son drove me to the edge of town and said, “This is where you get off the bus. We can’t support you anymore.” But I had a secret that I had kept for so long that my unfilial son regretted.

“On the day my husband was buried, it was drizzling. The small black umbrella was not enough to hide the loneliness in my heart. I trembled as I held the incense stick and looked down at the newly dug grave, the soil still wet. My partner of nearly forty years — my Ramon — was now just a handful of cold dirt.”

After the funeral, I didn’t have time to sink into sadness. My eldest son, Jun, whom my husband trusted completely, quickly took the keys. A few years ago, when Ramon was still healthy, he said, “We’re old, let’s give Jun the land title so he can be responsible.” I didn’t object — what parent doesn’t love their child? So the house and land were all transferred to Jun’s name.

On the seventh day after the funeral, Jun told me to take a walk to distract myself. I didn’t expect that the ride would be like a stab. The car stopped at the edge of the city, near a deserted jeepney stop. Jun said coldly:
— This is where you get off. My wife and I can’t support you anymore. From now on, you have to take care of yourself.

My ears were ringing, my eyes were dark. I thought I had misheard. But his eyes were determined, as if he wanted to push me down immediately. I sat blankly on the side of the road, next to a small sari-sari shop, with only a cloth bag containing a few clothes in my hand. The house — where I had lived and taken care of my husband and children — was now in his name. I had no right to return.

People say “when you lose your husband, you still have your children,” but sometimes having children is like not having them. I was forced into a corner by my own child. However, Jun didn’t know: I wasn’t empty-handed. In my breast pocket, I always carried my savings book — the money my husband and I had saved our entire lives, worth tens of millions of pesos. We hid it well, not letting our children or anyone know. Mr. Ramon once said: “People are only good when they have something in their hands.”

That day, I decided to keep quiet. No begging, no revealing secrets. I needed to see how Jun and this life would treat me.

The first day I was left behind, I sat on the porch of the sari-sari shop. The owner — Aling Nena — took pity on me and offered me a hot cup of tsaa. When I told her that I had just lost my husband and been abandoned by my children, she just sighed:

— These days, there are many situations like this, my dear. Children value money more than love.

I rented a small boarding house temporarily, paying with the interest withdrawn from my savings book. I was careful: I didn’t let anyone know that I had a fortune. I lived simply, wore old clothes, bought cheap food, and didn’t attract attention.

There were nights, curled up on the rickety bamboo bed, I missed my old house, the creaking sound of the ceiling fan, the smell of the ginger salad that Mr. Ramon used to make. The nostalgia was painful, but I told myself: as long as I live, I must continue to move forward.

I began to integrate into my new life. During the day, I asked to help at the palengke: washing vegetables, carrying, and packing things to take home. The wages were not much, but I did not mind. I wanted to stand on my own two feet, not relying on pity. The traders at the market called me “the gentle Nanay Teresa.” They did not know that every time I returned to my rented room after the market, I opened my savings book to look at it for a while and then put it away carefully. That was the secret to survival.

Once, I happened to meet an old acquaintance — Aling Rosa, my best friend from my youth. Seeing me staying at the rental house, I just told her that my husband had passed away and life was difficult. She felt sorry for me and invited me to come and help at the family carinderia. I agreed. The work was hard, but I had a place to sleep and meals. I had more reason to keep my savings book secret.

Meanwhile, news about Jun still reached my ears. He lived with his wife and children in a spacious house, bought a new car, but was involved in gambling. An acquaintance whispered: “He must have pawned the land title.” Hearing that made my heart ache, but I decided not to contact him. He had chosen to leave his mother on the side of the road, so I had nothing more to say.

One afternoon, while I was cleaning at the carinderia, a strange man stopped by. He was dressed smartly but his face was tense. I recognized him — Jun’s drinking buddy. He stared at me and asked

— Are you Jun’s mother?

I paused, nodded. He leaned closer, his voice urgent:

— He owes us millions of pesos. Now he’s hiding. If you still love him, then save him.

I was stunned. He just smiled faintly:

— I’m so poor now, I have nothing to help.

He left angrily. But that made me think a lot. I loved him, but I was angry with him to the core. He had once heartlessly abandoned me at the jeepney stop. Now he was getting what he deserved, was that fair?

A few months later, Jun came to see me. He was skinny, haggard, and his eyes were red. As soon as he saw me, he fell to his knees, choking:

— Mom, I was wrong. I’m a bastard. Please save me once. If not, my whole family will be lost.

My heart was in turmoil. I remembered the nights I cried for him, remembered being abandoned by him. But I also remembered what Mr. Ramon had told me before he died: “No matter what, he is still my child.”

I was silent for a long time. Then I went into the room and took out the savings book — the money my parents had saved all their lives, equivalent to tens of millions of pesos. I placed it in front of Jun and looked at him, my voice calm:
— This is the money my parents left me. I hid it because I was afraid that you wouldn’t know how to appreciate it. Now I give it to you, but remember: if you trample on your mother’s love one more time, no matter how much money there is, you will never be able to hold your head up high.

Jun trembled as he received the book. He cried like rain.

I knew that maybe he would change, maybe he wouldn’t. But at least, I had fulfilled my final responsibility as a mother. And the secret about that money — finally — was revealed, just when it was needed.