But I carried a secret that I had kept for a long time, and that my ungrateful son would end up regretting.

On the day of my husband’s funeral it was drizzling.
The little black umbrella was not enough to hide the loneliness I felt in my heart. He trembled as he held the incense stick and stared at the freshly dug grave, the earth still wet.
My companion of almost forty years —my dear Ramón— was now nothing more than a handful of cold earth.

After the funeral, I didn’t have time to sink into sadness.
My eldest son, Jun, whom my husband trusted blindly, took the keys without delay.
A few years ago, when Ramón was still healthy, he told me:
“We are old. Let’s put the title deed in Jun’s name so that he can be held accountable.”
I did not object—what father does not love his child?
So the house and land were transferred to Jun’s name.

On the seventh day after the burial, Jun suggested that I go for a walk to clear my mind.
I didn’t expect that walk to be like a stab.
The car stopped on the outskirts of town, near an abandoned jeepney stop.
Jun said coldly,
“Here you get off. My wife and I can no longer support you. From now on, you’ll have to take care of yourself.”

My ears were ringing, my vision was darkened.
I thought I had misheard.
But his eyes were determined, as if he wanted to push me out of the car.
I sat, in shock, by the side of the road, next to a small shop. I only had a cloth bag with a few clothes.
The house—where I lived, cared for my husband, and raised my children—no longer belonged to me. It was in his name. He had no right to return.

They say that “when you lose your husband, you still have your children,” but sometimes having children is like having none.
My own son cornered me.
However, Jun didn’t know: I wasn’t empty-handed.
In my breast pocket, I always carried my passbook—the money my husband and I had saved over our lifetimes, equivalent to tens of millions of pesos.
We hid it well, without telling our children or anyone.
Ramon once told me,
“People are only good when they have something going on.”

That day I decided to keep quiet.
I didn’t beg, I didn’t reveal secrets.
I needed to see how Jun and this life would treat me.

The first day I was left alone, I sat on the porch of the store.
The owner—Aling Nena—took pity on me and offered me a cup of hot tea.
When I told her that I had just lost my husband and that my children had abandoned me, she sighed deeply:

“There are many situations like this today, my dear. Children value money more than love.”

I temporarily rented a small room, paid with interest withdrawn from my passbook.
I was very cautious: I didn’t tell anyone that I had a fortune.
He lived simply, wore old clothes, bought cheap food, and didn’t attract attention.

There were nights when, curled up in my wobbly bamboo bed, I missed my old home, the creaking of the ceiling fan, the aroma of the ginger salad that Ramón prepared.
The nostalgia hurt, but I told myself: as long as I am alive, I must keep going.

I began to adapt to my new life.
During the day, he would ask for work in the market: washing vegetables, carrying things, packing.
The salary wasn’t much, but I didn’t care.
I wanted to stand on my own feet, not relying on pity.
The merchants in the market called me “the kind Mama Teresa.”
They didn’t know that every time I returned to my rented room, I would open my passbook for a moment and then put it away carefully.
That was my secret to survival.

One day, I met an old acquaintance—Aling Rosa, my best friend from my youth.
When she saw me in a rental house, I only told her that my husband had passed away and that life was difficult.
He took pity on me and invited me to help with the family caring.
Accepted.
The work was hard, but I had a place to sleep and guaranteed food.
That gave me even more reason to keep my passbook a secret.

Meanwhile, news kept coming to me about Jun.
He lived with his wife and children in a spacious house, bought a new car, but got into the game.
An acquaintance whispered,
“I’m sure you’ve already pledged the title to the property.”

My heart ached to hear that, but I decided not to contact him.
He had chosen to abandon his mother by the roadside. I had nothing to say to him anymore.

One afternoon, while I was cleaning in the carrindería, a strange man arrived.
He was dressed elegantly, but his face was tense.
I recognized him: he was Jun’s drinking partner.
He stared at me and asked:

“Are you Jun’s mother?”

I stopped, nodded.
He approached, in an urgent voice:

“He owes us millions of pesos. Now he is hidden. If you still want it, save it.”

I was stunned.
He only gave a bitter smile:

“I’m so broke now, I can’t help him.”

He left angry. But that made me think a lot.
I loved him, but I was deeply hurt.
He, who had abandoned me mercilessly at that jeepney stop.
Now he got what he deserved? Was it fair?

A few months later, Jun came to see me.
He was thin, emaciated, with red eyes.
As soon as he saw me, he fell to his knees, his voice breaking:

—”Mom, I was wrong. I was a wretch. Please save me one more time. If not, my whole family will be lost.”

My heart was conflicted.
I remembered the nights I cried for him, the abandonment I suffered.
But I also remembered what Ramon said to me before he died:
“Whatever happens, he is still our son.”

I was silent for a long time.
Then I went into the room and took out the savings book — the money my parents had kept all their lives, equivalent to tens of millions of pesos.
I put it in front of Jun and looked him in the eye, my voice serene:

“This is the money my parents left me. I hid it because I was afraid you wouldn’t know how to value it.
Now I give it to you, but remember: if you trample on your mother’s love again, no matter how much money you have, you will never be able to raise your head with dignity.”

Jun temblaba al recibir la libreta.
Lloraba como un niño bajo la lluvia.

Sabía que tal vez cambiaría, tal vez no.
Pero al menos, había cumplido con mi última responsabilidad como madre.
Y el secreto de aquel dinero —por fin— fue revelado, justo cuando era necesario.