“Lola, You’re Being Scammed,” My Daughter Said—But By Then, It Was Too Late

They say old age is when you finally begin to live for yourself — after years of living for your children, grandchildren, and everyone else. I never imagined that at 65 — an age many call the twilight of life — I’d feel my heart race again… flutter with excitement… and stumble like a teenage girl in love.

My name is Rosalinda, a retired public school teacher in Quezon City. I lost my husband, Eduardo, to lung cancer five years ago. He was a good man — kind, gentle, and devoted to our children. After his passing, I accepted that my remaining years would be filled with books, salabat tea, and occasional barangay senior programs. I shut the door to love… or so I thought.

But fate works in mysterious ways — and mine came wearing jeans and sneakers, in the form of a 25-year-old man named Jerome.

I met Jerome in a charcoal sketching workshop at the local multipurpose hall. I was surprised to see someone his age in a room full of senior citizens. He had a warm smile and eyes that sparkled with curiosity. He helped set up the easels, rearranged chairs, and chatted respectfully with everyone.

At first, I thought nothing of it. That changed one stormy afternoon, when my tricycle broke down in heavy rain and Jerome offered to take me home on his motorbike. From that moment, we — or “Lola and nephew” as I jokingly called us — started speaking more often. He told me he worked in IT at Ortigas, graduated from UP Diliman, but his heart was in design. He dreamed of starting his own creative studio someday.

He was articulate, soft-spoken, and full of ambition. Around him, I felt like my younger self again — the energetic English teacher who once dreamed of writing a book. He’d say, “You’re the most elegant woman here, Lola Rosa,” and I’d laugh and pretend not to blush.

Coffee dates turned into dinner. Then one night, under the soft lights of a small café in Maginhawa, he said:

“I know it sounds crazy, but I’m serious. I love you, Tita Rosalinda.”

I was stunned. I was 65. I had grandchildren. My knees ached and my hair was graying. I told him:

“Jerome, maybe you’re just confused. This can’t possibly work…”

But he was patient. He called every morning, dropped by with vitamins and pandesal, taught me how to use GCash, helped me order groceries on GrabMart. He made me feel… seen.

I stopped resisting. My heart — long dormant — gave in. I began wearing floral baro’t saya again, applying a hint of lipstick when I knew he was coming. Even my daughter noticed the glow in my face. I didn’t tell her everything, but she smiled and said, “Mama, you seem happy these days.”

Then, one afternoon, Jerome said:

“My mom in Laguna wants to meet you. I want her to know how important you are to me.”

I felt nervous — like a blushing bride. At 65, I never thought I’d feel that again.

The day before our trip, he came with a bouquet of yellow Malaysian mums and a strangely tense look. Then he said:

“Tita… I need your help. I finally secured a location for my design studio in Makati. But I’m short around ₱3 million — I need 1 kilo of gold. The banks are taking too long. Could you lend it, just temporarily? I promise to return it.”

My heart sank.

It was everything I had — my retirement fund, savings, and what my children had added for my future security.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of his hands, his gentle smile, the twinkle in his eye. But I also thought of all the cautionary tales I had read — of women who gave too much to young men who vanished without a trace.

In the morning, I said:

“I’ll help you, Jerome. But we’ll write an agreement — with your full name, the amount, and your signature. Not because I doubt you. Just to protect both of us.”

He nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

I borrowed from old colleagues, sold a tiny lot I inherited in Batangas, and gave him the money. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe this was love.

He hugged me tightly, like a son embracing a generous mother. I trembled with both fear and hope.

Three days later, we went to meet his family. His mother — a thin, sharp-eyed woman — greeted me with a forced smile:

“Hello po, ma’am… I mean, Tita.”

I knew that look. I had been a mother-in-law once too. It was the smile of someone barely hiding disapproval. For two days, we stayed in their modest home in Los Baños. Jerome was attentive — always pouring me juice, holding my hand — but his mother barely spoke.

When I left, I whispered: “Give it time, they’ll understand.”

Back in Quezon City, the messages from Jerome started getting fewer.

He said he was busy organizing permits, finalizing the design layout. He promised updates, sent heart emojis. But something felt… off.

Weeks passed. Still no studio, no soft launch.

When I pressed him, he said:

“The owner backed out. I’m searching for another space. Please don’t worry.”

But I did.

I asked my niece — a corporate lawyer — to check the agreement we signed.

She called me, alarmed:

“Tita… the name is real. But the ID number he gave? Belongs to someone else entirely.”

I froze.

I called Jerome. No answer.

I went to the apartment he once showed me. The landlord said:

“Ah, the young man? He left a month ago. Didn’t even pay the last rent.”

I fell apart.

For days, I didn’t eat. When I finally told my daughter, she held me and sobbed:

“Mama… you were scammed…”

We filed a report with the barangay and police. But without verified ID or official proof of residency, the police said:

“We can open a case. But honestly, Ma’am, these cases can take years — and recovery is rare.”

I was silent.

Me. Rosalinda Santiago. Who taught generations about truth, logic, and critical thinking — reduced to this.

I had mortgaged my house. Eventually, I had to sell it. Now I live in my daughter’s condo. She treats me with kindness, but I can still sense the silent questions in her eyes.

And Jerome?

Did he ever really love me — or was it all just part of the plan?

I’ll never know.

But I do know that I loved — truly, deeply.

Some nights, I still scroll through our old photos — laughing in cafés, his hand sketching mine on his tablet.

Someone once asked me: “If you could turn back time, would you still give him the gold?”

Never.

But if they asked: “Do you regret loving him?”

No. Never.

Because for a brief, shining moment… I was alive again.

It’s just that… I gave my heart to the wrong person