Late at night, in a karinderya in Quezon City, the light from the kitchen was flickering as if it was about to go out. Jomar Reyes — a man in his thirties, with tattoos covering both arms, who had just finished a tiring shift as a kitchen assistant — intended to go around and check before locking the door. Unexpectedly, that night turned his life in a different direction.

Passing by the restroom, Jomar heard a soft sob like a cat’s meow. He thought it was a stray cat coming in, pushed the door open… and was stunned. In the cold corner of the room, a girl of about ten years old, her clothes wrinkled, her arms covered with bruises. Her eyes were wet with tears as she looked up, trembling and begging:

— Uncle… please don’t tell my stepfather that I’m here…

Jomar looked fierce on the outside, but his voice was deep and gentle:

— Uncle didn’t do anything to me. What’s your name? Why are you here at this hour?

After a long while, the girl whispered. Her name was Mika. His biological father had long since left, and his mother had remarried a drunken man who beat both mother and son. Tonight, Mika rushed to cover her mother, and was beaten to the point of having to run away. Seeing the back door of Karinderya ajar, he crawled in to hide.

Hearing that, Jomar was speechless. He had also suffered domestic violence in his childhood; the smell of alcohol and the sound of broken glasses had haunted him for many years. The image of Mika cowering was no different from the boy Jomar had been. He knew he could not ignore it.

He was about to take Mika into the kitchen to warm himself up when… a loud knocking sound came from the back delivery entrance. A hoarse, alcohol-smelling man’s voice shouted:

— Has anyone seen Mika? She ran in here!

Mika panicked and grabbed Jomar’s hand. Just by looking at that pleading look, Jomar understood: handing her over now meant handing her over to the place of revenge.

He locked the bathroom door, pulled the latch on the back door, and walked out to the delivery yard. The man stood unsteadily, the bottle of wine at his side, his eyes bloodshot. Jomar blocked the way, his shoulders and chest covered with tattoos under his T-shirt, his posture calm but firm as a pillar.

“There’s no one here. It’s late, go home,” Jomar said, his voice cold.

He squinted, glanced around, and growled:

“If you cover my child, you’re done for!”

He rushed forward, intending to shove Jomar. The blow was strong. Jomar held his ground, using his shoulder to push him back. He angrily swung the bottle; Jomar snatched it and threw it into the trash can, the glass shattering.

“You want to make a big deal out of it?” Jomar growled, his eyes unblinking.

The atmosphere was as tense as a bowstring. From inside the bathroom, Mika held her breath, covering her mouth to keep from crying. The man cursed a few times, but before Jomar’s unyielding stance, he finally faltered and staggered away. Before he disappeared, he turned back and hissed through gritted teeth:

— I’ll come back. I’ll find him.

As soon as the door closed, Jomar let out a breath. He opened the bathroom door; Mika rushed to hug him, sobbing.

— If he catches you… you’ll die.

Jomar put his hand on the child’s shoulder:

— No one is allowed to hurt you anymore. I promise.

That night, Jomar did not return to the bedspace but took Mika to a small rented room near an alley in Barangay Commonwealth. He took out an old first aid kit, disinfected it, applied bandages, and cooked a bowl of hot noodles. In the yellow light, Mika ate and told stories: her mother worked long shifts, was weak against her grumpy husband; she lived in constant fear.

Jomar clenched his fists. He had thought that his life was all about finishing his shifts, paying the rent on time, and avoiding trouble. But tonight, something else arose: the desire to protect.

He tossed and turned almost all night. Early in the morning, Jomar took Mika to the barangay elementary school to meet her old teacher — someone Mika trusted. But as soon as they reached the gate, a familiar figure was waiting: the stepfather, the smell of alcohol still lingering, his eyes scanning the school gate. When he saw Jomar and Mika, he glared and growled:

— You brat! You dare to hide from me?

He rushed forward and grabbed Mika’s hand. Jomar immediately blocked his way:

— That’s enough. You have no right to touch her anymore.

The noise attracted the attention of passersby and parents who were dropping her off. A few people stopped. He shouted:

— She’s my daughter! Who are you to interfere?

Jomar didn’t swing his fist. He looked up at the crowd, clearly stating each word:

— She was abused. Did everyone see the bruises on her arms? I couldn’t stand by and watch.

All eyes were on her. Mika trembled as she rolled up her sleeves, revealing new and old bruises. Some parents gasped, a woman covered her mouth with her hand in pity.

—You call beating a child a family matter? — one parent scowled.

—Call the police! — another pulled out his phone.

In a few minutes, the situation reversed. From the aggressor, the stepfather became the one surrounded by contemptuous gazes. The school security and the barangay tanod rushed to hold him; the PNP police quickly arrived. The officers separated the parties, recorded Jomar’s, Mika’s, and the witness’ statements; the DSWD was also notified, and the barangay’s VAWC desk coordinated the reception of the file.

Mika’s mother was invited. Seeing the obvious bruises on her daughter’s hands, she burst into tears. She had endured too long in fear. That day, a report was drawn up; the stepfather was detained for investigation under the Women and Children Protection Act. The court then issued a temporary protection order for Mika and her mother.

In the afternoon, things calmed down. Jomar took Mika to reunite with her mother at the social worker’s office. The woman bowed her head and held Jomar’s hand, choking up:

— Without you, she would have nowhere to hide. I promise to change and protect her.

Jomar just nodded. He didn’t need thanks. What he wanted was to see a smile return to a child’s face.

A few days later, on his way to work, Jomar stopped by the schoolyard. Mika was happily chasing after her friends. The bruises had faded; in their place was the innocence that should have been there long ago. Seeing Jomar, the child lit up and ran over:

— Uncle Jomar!

At that moment, Jomar’s chest felt light. He understood: sometimes, standing up for the weak not only saves a child from violence, but also saves himself from a dark past.

The stepfather was later dealt with according to the law; the story spread throughout the neighborhood as a reminder: domestic violence is not a “private matter,” but a community responsibility.

As for Jomar Reyes — the tattooed man who was once looked at with suspicion — he is now affectionately known as “Uncle Jomar who saved the girl.” He doesn’t think he’s done anything grand. But deep down, he has a simple pride: that night at karinderya Quezon City, he did the right thing.