On a rainy June afternoon at Calle Real – Iloilo City, a woman stood silently in front of the gate of Iloilo City National High School, holding an old umbrella, watching a student walking out. Seven years of raising a child alone, seventeen years of silently hiding her pain, now Lara’s heart was aching because of a truth she had never dared to face…

That year Lara was just 20 years old – the most beautiful age in a girl’s life. She was an accounting student at the University of San Agustin. Her family was not well off, her father died early, her mother sold pandesal/kakanin at the end of the alley to raise her two children. Lara was a good student, obedient. But it was the summer of her second year that wrote the most depressing page of her youth.

Lara met Miguel while working part-time at a carinderia near a construction site in Mandurriao. Miguel was a new worker from Tacloban, Leyte who came to work as a bricklayer. With his tall stature, gentle smile and somewhat awkward eyes, he made the young girl feel close and trusting. Love came like the first rain of the season – fast, unexpected and penetrating.

After more than three months of dating, Lara discovered she was pregnant. The good news was a wordless confusion for her. She dropped classes, worked more to save money. Miguel promised to take her back to Leyte to ask for her hand in marriage properly. Lara believed him, as if the world only had Miguel.

On the day she returned to meet his parents, things were not as Lara had imagined. Miguel’s parents were cold, their faces darkened when they heard the story of “pregnant before marriage”. His mother said something like a knife:

— Girls nowadays are very bad, already involved, how can they be sure that she is Miguel’s child?

They returned to Iloilo in silence. From that day on, Miguel began to avoid them, making excuses: “Parents haven’t agreed yet, wait a little longer…” – the sentence repeated over and over like an old tape.

Three months passed, Lara’s belly grew bigger, and Miguel’s contact with her became less frequent. One rainy afternoon, her co-worker called, her voice trembling:

Lara… Miguel got married in the countryside…

Lara stiffened. She sat on a park bench near the dormitory for hours. No tears. No complaints. Just a silence that seemed to have been drained of all sound.

She decided to drop out of school, move to the outskirts of Jaro, apply for a job as an accountant for a small wood workshop, and keep the baby. “No need for anyone’s pity, I’ll be a single mother,” she told herself every night, when her legs were swollen from pregnancy and she still didn’t dare to rest.

The baby was born on a rainy night, in a cold, damp, corrugated iron-roofed rented room. She named him Kian – meaning the beginning in her heart. Because for Lara, the baby was the only light left in her life.

Life was not easy. At twenty-one, Lara worked and raised her child at the same time. Sometimes she had to take Kian and leave him with the team leader’s tita when she suddenly worked overtime. Many nights, she cried because she was tired, because she felt sorry, because she missed her old mother in Molo but did not dare to go back, afraid of gossip.

Kian grew up healthy and well-behaved. He had eyes exactly like Miguel – every time she looked at him, Lara’s heart ached. She had never told her son who his father was; all his school applications left the “father’s name” section blank. For her, Kian only needed his mother.

When Kian entered 10th grade, Lara saved up enough to buy a small plot of land in Villa Arevalo to open a sari-sari store in front of the house. Life was peaceful, but the scars of memories were still there.

Then one afternoon in June… after the final exam of 11th grade, Lara accidentally heard Kian say to his friend:

— I don’t know who my father is either. Mom said he died a long time ago… but recently there was an uncle in the countryside who said I looked like someone named Miguel…

That name – Miguel – was like a heavy blow. Lara was shocked. She had hidden it from her son for seventeen years. She never expected that the time would come.

That night, she sat all night on the porch, watching the fireflies flickering behind the banana garden, her heart in turmoil.

The next morning, Lara went to the market as usual. While she was setting up her stall, a middle-aged woman approached – strange yet familiar. She stood there for a long time and then spoke:

— Are you… Lara?

Lara paused. That voice, that look made her heart pound.

— Yes… you are…?

— I am Miguel’s mother.

Lara was stunned. The woman looked much older than 17 years ago – no longer cold. She gently put down the gift bag:
— I had to go to Iloilo, heard from an acquaintance that you were in Arevalo so I came to see… I want to see Kian.

A long silence. Lara choked:
— What are you meeting him for? To apologize? It’s too late. Seventeen years, do you know how I’ve lived?

She just bowed her head:
— I know… I was wrong. That day I forced Miguel to marry someone else. She – Miguel’s wife – couldn’t give birth. They divorced last year. Three months ago, Miguel had a car accident and died. Before he died, he said: “I have a son. If you still love me, find him and ask Lara for forgiveness…”

Lara’s ears were ringing. The world was spinning. Miguel was dead… And he had never forgotten her and her son.

That afternoon, Lara called Kian, sitting across from him at the old wooden table where they had dinner every night.

— Kian… I have something to tell you.

The boy was bewildered. Lara told him everything – young love, betrayal, pain, and the decision to have a child alone. It was the first time Kian had heard about his father. When his mother stopped, he was silent. He didn’t cry out like she had feared. He just asked softly:

— So… does your father know I exist?

— Yes… but I don’t think he has the courage to face me. Now… it’s too late.

That night, Kian turned his face to the wall, tears falling without stopping.

A week later, Miguel’s mother returned. In her hands was an old brown paper bag, inside was a worn leather-bound diary. She handed it to Lara:

— It’s about the last days of my life… I think you should read it.

That night, when Kian was asleep, Lara opened the diary.

“Lara,
If you are reading this, it means I am no longer here. I am sorry for leaving you to struggle alone that year. I was a coward. I was afraid of my mother, afraid of public opinion, afraid of your disappointed eyes.
On the day I married someone else, I was drunk for a whole month. For seventeen years, every time I heard someone call me by the same name as you, my heart ached.

I secretly went back to Iloilo a few times, saw you carrying your child to the market, saw your child growing up day by day… I wished to hold your child one day, to call him my son. But… I didn’t have the courage.

Please… if your child wants to know the truth, don’t hide it. Let him know, at least he has a father who will regret it for the rest of his life.”

The last page was a photo of Miguel in the hospital, skinny but trying to smile, holding a blue woolen bracelet – the color Lara had knitted for him that year.

For the first time in seventeen years, Lara cried for real. Not because of resentment, but because of letting go.

The following month, Lara took Kian back to Tacloban, Leyte – where Miguel rested. The boy stood before the grave, his hands trembling as he placed the white flowers:

— I don’t blame you, Dad. But I need time.

Then he turned and hugged his mother tightly:

— I only know one thing… you are the bravest person in the world.

Lara smiled. The wind blowing from San Pedro Bay was salty, gentle like the heart of a mother who had gone through storms and still stood proudly.

There are loves that don’t need to end with a wedding; there are pains that don’t need anyone to pay the price. But the most beautiful thing in this life is: someone chose to give birth to you, and someone chose not to give up on you, even if the whole world turned its back on you.