It was a foggy morning in Quezon City. The December sky was gray and cold. An icy breeze crept under the door of our small house. I hugged my old shawl tightly as I pulled up in front of my son Marco’s room.

He held a small bank notebook — a deposit of more than half a million pesos, inherited from my late uncle, my mother’s brother, who died in Cebu. He planned to use that money to fix up the house, build a better room for Marco’s family, and save the rest for medical emergencies.

But instead of greetings, this is what I heard from inside the room:

“Love, when is your mother leaving?” Denise, Marco’s wife, asked in a tone of annoyance. It’s always here. The house is small, and there are still old people around. It’s embarrassing when visitors come.

“Denise… It’s my mom. He has nowhere else to go,” Marco replied, clearly doubtful.

“When we got married, he said he couldn’t give us anything but an old television. Is this how a mother supports? And now we are the ones who have to adjust?

“Leave it at that. I’ll find him a place to live. We will only send you money each month.

I was devastated.

I’ve been living in Metro Manila for three decades, since I came from Leyte. I raised Marco alone since my husband died in a boat accident. I washed clothes, sold groceries, was a domestic worker — all so he could finish his studies. The house where they live now? I saved it with twenty years of sacrifice.

I thought that as I got older, I would have a little rest. A little recognition. But no. To my daughter-in-law, I was just a burden.

I put the booklet in my pocket. I left in silence. Without making a sound. No goodbyes. I felt like a ghost lost in itself.

That night, I went to Laguna, where I knew someone. There I rented a small apartment — barely 15 square meters, but with a window, plants outside and, above all: silence.

I’m not angry. I don’t hold a grudge. But for the first time in my life, I decided to live for myself.

That was the beginning of a new stage.

Every morning, I walk to the market. I make coffee while watching a drama on YouTube. I join the group of grandmothers who do zumba every morning in the square. At noon I read a paperback book, and at night I watch old films by Nora Aunor and Vilma Santos.

Take it easy. Quits.

Marco calls from time to time. I don’t answer. Sometimes text messages come in saying, “Mom, where are you?” — I delete them. I don’t want dramas. I don’t want explanations.

I’ve given my whole life. It’s time to give something back to myself.

Two months have passed.

At the Quezon City home, things began to change.

My son Marco became quieter. Denise isn’t so grumpy anymore. But the most affected… it was my grandson Jio, who was seven years old.

He is no longer a cheerful child. Eat little. And every morning he always asks the same question:

“Where is grandma?”

Marco and Denise don’t know what to answer. But the truth is this: the child feels the absence.

Gone is the hand that always caressed his shoulder at night. There is no longer the voice that whispered: “Son, pray first.” There is no longer the presence of the only person who did not judge, who did not ask for anything in return, and who was always there.

One day, Marco couldn’t take it anymore. She went to Leyte to look for Aunt Lourdes, my cousin. There he confessed:

“Auntie… it’s my fault. I didn’t defend Mom.

Lourdes patted him, in silence. She showed her a picture of me — in sandals, in a dress, smiling as I walked with other elderly women in the square.

“Now he’s happy. Finally.

The next day, he found the room I was renting. Outside, gumamel flowers grew. A rag hung from a wire. The place smelled of burnt food.

Knock, knock.

I opened the door with a ladle in my hand.

I stopped. “Marco…”

He didn’t speak right away. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“Mom… I am sorry. Come back, please. Denise and I are sorry.

I didn’t answer. I turned around and poured the tea. I carefully placed it on the table. He sat down on the wooden bench. We were silent for a long time.

“I’m not angry,” I said at last. But for now, I’ll stay here.

“Why, Mom?”

I looked at him. Calmly, but firmly:

“Because I’m just learning to love myself. And I want to stand firm on that.

A week later, Jio came to visit. He hugged me immediately.

“Grandma, you were gone for a long time. Don’t leave again.

I stroked her hair. He offered me his favorite boiled monggos.

Since then, every weekend, Marco brings Jio to see me. Sometimes, Denise even comes. He is already starting to help me in the kitchen. We are not yet close, but there is effort. And that, for me, is enough.

One day, Marco called.

“Mom, I cooked adobo. Do you want me to take you a little?

Smiled. I didn’t respond right away. But for the first time, I felt that this gesture came not out of guilt, but out of sincere understanding.

The money? He is still on the bench. I didn’t spend it out of anger. It was an offering for my own peace. Because now I’ve learned something:

True love is not endless sacrifice. It must be recognized, respected, and have boundaries.

And this time, I will not allow myself to be ignored again.