When I passed the university entrance exam, I had nothing but a letter of acceptance and a dream of escaping poverty. My family was so poor that whenever we had a meal with meat, the whole neighborhood knew about it.

My mother passed away when I was just 10 years old, and my biological father disappeared long before I could even remember his face. The only person who took me in during those years was a man who shared no blood relation with me—my foster father.

He had been my mother’s close friend in the past. He worked as a tricycle and cart driver, living frugally in a cramped 10-square-meter rented room by the river. When my mother died, he was the only one who stepped forward to raise me, even though he himself lived in hardship. Throughout my schooling, he worked tirelessly and went into debt just so I wouldn’t have to drop out.

I remember once when it was time to pay for extra classes, I didn’t dare ask him for help. That evening, he quietly handed me a small stack of worn-out bills that smelled faintly of antiseptic. He said:

– I just donated blood. They gave me a few hundred as compensation. Take it for now.

I broke down in tears. Who would repeatedly sell their blood just to support a child that wasn’t even theirs? My foster father did that throughout my entire high school years. No one knew, except me and him.

Later, I was accepted into a prestigious university in the city. When I received the admission letter, he hugged me tightly like a child, tears streaming down his face. He said:

– Well done, son. Go. I may not be able to help you forever, but you must study to escape this life.

In college, I worked every job I could find—from waiting tables at cafés to tutoring. Still, my foster father sent me a few hundred thousand each month, sometimes the very last money he had in his pocket. I told him to stop, but he always scolded me:

– It’s my money, and you have the right to take it.

After graduation, I worked for a foreign company. My first month’s salary was 15 million, and I immediately sent him 5 million. He refused and said:

– Keep it. Save it for your life ahead. I’m old, I don’t need much.

After nearly ten years of working, I was promoted to director with a monthly salary exceeding 100 million. I wanted to bring him to the city to live with me, but he refused. He said he was used to living simply and didn’t want to trouble me. I knew how stubborn he was, so I respected his choice.

Then one day, he came to visit me. He looked frail, his skin darkened from the sun, his hair much grayer. Sitting timidly on the edge of my sofa, he said:

– Son… I’m old now. My eyesight is failing, my hands tremble, and I’ve been sick often. The doctor said I need surgery, and it costs about 60 million. I have no relatives left… so I came here… to borrow some money from you.

I sat in silence. Memories flooded back—the times he brought me porridge when I was sick, the nights he walked through heavy rain to fetch the books I had forgotten in class, the evenings he dozed off in a chair waiting for me to return from extra lessons.

Then I looked straight into his eyes and said:

– No. Not even a single peso will I lend you.

He froze.

His eyes sank, but he didn’t get angry. He only nodded, stood up quietly like a beggar turned away. But as he rose, I grabbed his hand and knelt before him:

– Dad, you are my father. Between us, how could there be talk of lending and borrowing? You sacrificed your whole life for me. Now let me take care of you for the rest of your life. You once told me, “It’s my money, and you have the right to take it.” Now it’s my money, and you have the right to spend it.

At that moment, he broke down crying. I hugged him, feeling like a child again clinging to his father after a nightmare. His frail shoulders shook, and I choked with emotion.

From that day on, I brought him to live with us. My wife didn’t object; on the contrary, she showed him great care and concern. As for him, he never sat idle—he helped us with small chores, and when free, we went traveling and shopping together.

People often ask me why I treat my foster father so well, when in college he could only give me a few hundred thousand a month. I just smile and say:

– He raised me with his blood, with the youth of his life. A man who shared no blood ties with me, but loved me more than my real father. If I don’t repay him, how could I live with myself?

There are debts in life that can’t be repaid with money. But if you have been given such grace, no matter how late, you must repay it—with your whole heart.