When I was 52, I received a large sum of money. I was about to tell my son, but when I got to his bedroom door, I didn’t expect what I heard: they were talking about how they were going to kick me out of the house.

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

He held a small bank booklet—a deposit of over half a million pesos, an inheritance from my late uncle, my mother’s brother, who had died in Cebu. He planned to use the 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:

“Honey, when is your mom leaving?” asked Denise, Marco’s wife, with a hint of annoyance. “She’s always here. The house is small, and there are still elderly people around. It’s embarrassing when visitors come over.”

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

“When we got married, she said she couldn’t give us anything more than an old television. Is that how a mother supports her? And now we’re the ones who have to adjust?”

—Leave it like that. I’ll find him a place to live. We’ll just send him money each month.

I felt devastated.

I’ve lived in Metro Manila for three decades, ever since I came from Leyte. I raised Marco alone after my husband died in a boating accident. I did laundry, sold groceries, worked as a domestic servant—all so he could finish his studies. The house they live in now? I saved up for it through twenty years of sacrifice.

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

I put the notebook in my pocket. I left in silence. Without making a sound. Without saying goodbye. I felt like a ghost lost within myself.

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’s where a new stage began.

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 plaza. At midday, I read a paperback book, and at night I watch old Nora Aunor and Vilma Santos movies.

Calm. At peace.

Marco calls every now and then. I don’t answer. Sometimes I get texts that say, “Mom, where are you?” — I delete them. I don’t want drama. I don’t want explanations.

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

Two months have passed.

In the house in Quezon City, things began to change.

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

He’s no longer a happy child. He eats very little. And every morning he asks the same question:

—Where is Grandma?

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

The hand that always caressed his shoulder at night is gone. The voice that whispered, “Son, pray first,” is gone. The presence of the only person who didn’t judge, who asked for nothing in return, and who was always there, is gone.

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

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

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

—Now she’s happy. Finally.

The next day, he found the room I rented. Outside, gumamela flowers were growing. A rag hung from a wire. The place smelled of burnt food.

Toc, toc.

I opened the door with a ladle in my hand.

I stopped. —Marco…

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

—Mom… I’m sorry. Please come back. Denise and I are sorry.

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

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

—Why, Mom?

I looked at him. Calmly, but firmly:

—Because I’m only just learning to love myself. And I want to stick to that.

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

—Grandma, you were gone for too long. Don’t ever leave again.

I stroked her hair. She offered me her favorite boiled mushrooms.

Since then, Marco brings Jio to see me every weekend. Sometimes Denise comes too. She’s already starting to help me in the kitchen. We’re not close yet, but she’s making an effort. And that, for me, is enough.

One day, Marco called.

—Mom, I cooked adobo. Do you want me to bring you some?

I smiled. I didn’t respond immediately. But for the first time, I felt that this gesture came not from guilt, but from genuine understanding.

The money? It’s still in the bank. 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 about endless sacrifice. It must be acknowledged, respected, and have boundaries.

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