AFTER MY HUSBAND’S FUNERAL, MY SON TOOK ME OUT OF TOWN AND SAID, “GET OFF HERE. WE CAN’T AFFORD TO FEED YOU ANYMORE.”
BUT I HAD A SECRET I HIDDEN FOR A LONG TIME

After my husband’s funeral, it seemed like all the colors of my life went with him. Mario and I had been together for decades — through thick and thin, through rain and sun. But when he was buried, it was as if I too had been buried in sadness.

After a few days, my son Carlo said he would come with me to town. I thought we were going to buy medicine or visit a relative. He was quiet on the ride, looking out the bus window, as if he was thinking something heavy.

When we reached a corner outside town, he suddenly looked at me.
“Mom,” he said, trying to calm his voice, “get off here.”

I frowned. “Why, son? Can’t we go home together?”

He took a deep breath, unable to look at me. “Mom… we can’t take care of you anymore. We’re struggling. I have a child too, Liza doesn’t have a job yet. I’m sorry, but… that’s all.”

It was as if my world suddenly stopped. The child I poured all my effort, all my love, all the times I could barely eat, now he himself drove me away.

“Son…” I said softly, my voice trembling, “is that the reward for the sacrifices we made as a couple?”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he didn’t look back. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

And the bus finally pulled away, leaving me alone on the side of the road.

I was carrying only an old bag and a few pieces of clothing. I sat on an old bench in the waiting shed, as the afternoon air gradually cooled. I didn’t know where to go. But I have a secret, something I have kept for years — a secret I do not want anyone to know, especially my son.

When I was young, before I met Mario, I worked as a maid in the house of a wealthy family in Manila — the De Veras. My then-employee, Señora Teresa, was very kind to me. When she fell ill, I took care of her until her last breath.

Before she passed away, she called me and handed me an envelope.
“Lina,” she said, “when the time comes when you are no longer around, open this. But do not use it while you still have the means.”

I hid it in my small trunk, and for 30 years, I never opened it. Until tonight.

When I found temporary lodgings in an old rental house in town, I took out the envelope. The paper was a little yellowed, but Señora Teresa’s handwriting was still clear.

“To whomever it may concern: I, Teresa De Vera, leave a portion of my wealth to Lina D. Santos, in gratitude for her loyalty. Enclosed with this document is a land title and a bank account in her name.”

I could hardly believe it. My hand was shaking as I opened another envelope that contained the same thing — the title to a land in San Pablo, Laguna.

Tears welled up in my eyes, not because of the wealth, but because of the kindness I had never expected.

The next day, I went to the bank, carrying the document. The staff there helped me, and they eventually confirmed that there was indeed an account in my name — and inside it was an amount that I could hardly spend even in my entire life.

I took my time. I just bought a small house, and I lived there. Every day I cooked food and gave it to the homeless children outside. With every smile they gave me, it seemed that the pain of being rejected by my own child lessened.

But one day, while I was feeding the children, a man arrived. Carlo. Dirty, thin, and seemingly starving.

“Ma…” he said almost in a whisper, “forgive me.”

I was silent for a moment. “Why are you here?”

“I lost my job, Liza left me. I have nowhere to stay.”

I stared at him — my son who had once driven me away — now bowed, full of regret.

The old pain seemed to gnaw at my chest again, but pity was stronger than anger.

I approached, held his hand, and said softly,

“A mother, no matter how many times you drive her away, will always be a mother. Come, my son. Eat first.”

And for the first time in many years, we ate together. Quietly, but peacefully.

A few months later, I taught him how to run a small business — a carinderia we opened in front of the house. Little by little, he changed; He learned to be humble, to be grateful, and most of all, to love again.

One afternoon, while I was arranging flowers in front of the house, Carlo approached me.
“Mom,” he said, “I don’t know how I can repay you.”

I smiled, patting his hand. “You don’t have to repay love, son. What’s important is that you learned to return.”

As I watched him help the children eating at the cafeteria, I smiled. I was no longer angry. I was no longer sad.

Because sometimes, the hearts that are hurt are the same hearts that can forgive — and in the end, that is the true treasure