As soon as I got off the bus in Cubao, it was pouring rain. In my torn backpack were a few old clothes and a piece of paper with my cousin’s phone number – she was the one who said she would help me find a job at a canteen near the Araneta Center bus terminal. I had nothing but a dream of changing my life and a heart that had never known lies.

My name is Maria. I just turned 18, I came from San Jose, Nueva Ecija to work for a living. My family was very poor, my father passed away when I was 9, my mother was sick all the time, my younger brother was in grade 7 and was struggling to make ends meet. I finished grade 12 but didn’t dare dream of going to college, I just hoped to earn a little money to send back to my mother and brother and that would be enough.

Thanks to my cousin’s help, I became a dishwasher at a famous canteen in Kamuning, Quezon City. Every day I woke up at 4am, sweeping, washing dishes, wiping tables. By night, I was so tired that I just wanted to collapse on the thin mattress under the stairs of the workers’ dormitory.

Around the sixth month, I noticed a man who often came to eat pho in the morning, and after eating, he often ordered a cup of black coffee and sat there for a long time. He wore a white shirt, and his perfume smelled luxurious. Once, he even slipped me 200 pesos, saying “to give you a drink”. I awkwardly refused, but he just smiled, his eyes looking at me were not like those silly men who used to tease me.

May be an image of 2 people, baby and hospital

His name was Ronald, 39 years old, working in “real estate” – that’s what he said. Ronald spoke gently and charmingly, making me feel noticed and respected. After a few meetings, he asked me out for milk tea, and gradually, he became the one who picked me up every night. I was like a young bird learning to fly for the first time – seeing that love was something that could save a life.

Then one day, Ronald said to me:

“Give birth to a son for me, to continue the family line. Love doesn’t need status. You will have 300,000 pesos, I will take care of your mother and your sister. Later, if you want to open a shop or do any business, I will help you.”

My heart was pounding when I heard that. 300,000 pesos? I had never dreamed of that amount of money in my life. The prospect of starting a new life, taking care of my mother and sister, and maybe opening a small hair salon or selling sugarcane juice in front of my hometown school kept floating in my mind. I agreed.

Ronald rented me an apartment in BGC, Taguig. The room was clean, had air conditioning, hot water, and a balcony overlooking the city. I moved in with him as husband and wife – of course, without status or papers.Three months later, I was pregnant. Ronald was very happy. He bought supplements every day and called a doctor to come and check me up. He took good care of me like a treasure. I started to believe in fairy tales. My mother in the countryside didn’t know anything, so I hid it – I planned that after giving birth, I would bring a lot of money back to the countryside, rebuild the house for my mother, and buy a new bicycle for my younger brother.

I Gave Birth on a Rainy October Afternoon in Manila — But the Father Vanished Without a Word

I went into labor on a gloomy, drizzling afternoon in Manila, sometime in October. The sky was dark, the air heavy. The pain felt like dying — but I clenched my teeth and bore it, for my baby.

The hospital was clean, a private international clinic. The nurses were kind, the room warm. My baby boy came out weighing 3.2kg, fair-skinned, eyes wide open.

And when I heard his first cry, I broke into tears.

What I didn’t expect — was that at that very moment, Ronald wasn’t in the hospital.
He wasn’t even at our apartment.
He didn’t text.
Didn’t answer his phone.

The next morning, my phone line was cut off.

When I returned to the condo in Bonifacio Global City, the door wouldn’t open. My key card was deactivated.

The guard told me Ronald had checked out the day before.

I sat on the cold hallway floor of the 18th floor, shivering, clutching my baby under my jacket.
No money.
No home.
No one.

That’s when I knew… I had been used.

“Go Back to the Province,” They Said. But I Had Nowhere Left.

I wandered the hospital corridors, baby in arms, hoping someone would help. Most people looked at me with pity… and caution.

A janitress, a middle-aged woman named Aling Mely, handed me a can of formula milk.

“You should go back to your province. Life here in Manila is too hard.”

But where would I go?

I had hidden the pregnancy from my mother. I had no real friends. I called my cousin — her phone was busy. Hours later, she finally answered.

“I didn’t know you got yourself into this mess. Don’t involve me. Handle it on your own.”

I shut everyone out after that.
I told my mom I was doing fine, working. That the birth went well.

She cried over the phone, worried for me.
But she had no idea I was spending the night on a street bench in Quezon City, huddled with a newborn.

A Kind Stranger Gave Me Shelter in Her Dirty Kitchen

Three days later, a cleaning lady I had once met in the hospital — Nanay Luz, from Bicol — offered me a temporary place to stay.

Her place was tiny, maybe 9 square meters, behind a carinderia in Pasig. She let me stay in her outdoor dirty kitchen — no rent, only asking that I help watch her grandson during the day while she worked.

I cried as I stepped into the cramped but safe space, baby in my arms.
The roof leaked. The floor was cement. But to me, it was a palace of mercy.

I Named My Son “Miguel”—It Means “Who is Like God?”

I swore I would raise him well.
Even if it cost me my entire youth.

I worked like a ghost. By day, I helped care for Nanay Luz’s grandchild. By night, I folded paper bags, glued labels for small businesses, and assembled cheap ballpens from Divisoria — anything I could do while Miguel slept.

Some nights, I only ate half a pandesal, saving the rest so I could breastfeed properly.

“Who’s the Father?” I Couldn’t Answer.

When I applied for Miguel’s birth certificate, the city hall clerk stared at the blanks.

“Where’s the father’s name? The birth certificate? Do you have any ID? Any proof he exists?”

All I had was a blurry selfie with Ronald at a milk tea shop 7 months ago.
He had deleted all his social media. No ID. No address. Nothing.

He was a ghost.

A Young Lawyer Offered to Help — For Free

Then came Atty. Jomar, a young volunteer lawyer who saw my anonymous Facebook post in a support group for single moms.

“If you can prove paternity through DNA, we can file a case. Even if he refuses. I’ll help you. No charge.”

I was speechless.
A case?
I had never imagined that.

But a tiny spark lit inside me.
Maybe it’s time to fight.

I Traced Ronald’s Lexus — And Found the Company Behind the Lies

I went back to the bulalo place he used to love. The staff said he hadn’t been around in months. I returned to our old condo, talked to the guard. One of them recalled Ronald drove a white Lexus, even gave me the plate number.

I dug through vehicle registries and, with help from a friend in LTO, traced the name: Ronald S. Alcaraz, owner of Alcaraz Realty Holdings, Inc.

A quick online search and I nearly collapsed.
The company had just been exposed for scamming land buyers in Cavite and Laguna.

Ronald… was a professional con artist.

I Went Public — And Everything Changed

I stopped hiding.

I posted everything online — my face, Miguel’s face, our story. The screenshots. The betrayal.

It went viral.

Thousands shared it.
A reporter reached out.
The story ran on PhilStar.com.

Then, a girl messaged me.

“He did the same to me. I had an abortion. I was too scared.”

Another woman sent a photo of her son.
He looked just like Miguel.

Justice, at Last.

With Atty. Jomar’s help, we filed in Pasig Family Court.
The judge ordered DNA testing. Ronald couldn’t hide anymore.

Under public pressure and mounting legal threat, he finally acknowledged paternity, was forced to pay child support and issue a public apology.

But the money didn’t matter.
What mattered was recognition.

Now, Miguel could enroll in school.
We could rent a place legally.
I could work without fear.

Two Years Later…

I’m no longer the girl who washed dishes and cried herself to sleep.

I finished a spa and wellness training course, opened a small massage and nail shop near Shaw Boulevard, and supported myself and my child — without a single peso from my family.

Miguel is now 2.
He says “Mama” with a smile.
He kisses my cheek every morning.

And Ronald?
He disappeared again.
But I don’t care.

People ask me, “Don’t you hate him?”

I smile.

“If not for that fall, I’d still be that naïve girl chasing fairy tales.
Now I’m awake.
And stronger than I ever thought I could be.