When I was 52 years old, 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 get me kicked out.

It was foggy in Quezon City , the December sky was cold and gray. A cool breeze blew under the door of our small house. I hugged my old shawl tightly as I stood in front of my son Marco ‘s room .

I was holding a small passbook from the bank — a deposit of over half a million, which I inherited from my late mother’s brother who died in Cebu. I planned to use it to fix up our house, build a better room for Marco’s family, and keep the rest as an emergency fund in case I got sick.

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

“Hon, when is Mama leaving?” said Marco’s wife, Denise , with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “She’s around every day. The house is small, and there are still elderly people hanging around. It’s embarrassing when there are visitors.”

“Denise… that’s Mama. She has nowhere else to go,” Marco replied, clearly hesitant.

“When we got married, he said he couldn’t give us anything but an old TV. Is that how supportive a mother is? And now, we want to adjust ourselves?”

“Let it be. I’ll find a place for him to live. We’ll just send him money every month.”

I am depressed.

I have lived in Metro Manila from Leyte for three decades. I have raised Marco alone since my wife died in a boat accident. I did laundry, sold groceries, was a housekeeper — all so that he could finish his studies. The house they live in now? I saved that up from 20 years of perseverance.

I thought, when I got older, there would be a little relief. A little appreciation. But no. In my son-in-law’s eyes, I was a hindrance.

I pocketed the passbook. I quietly left. No noise. 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 — only 15 square meters, but with a window, plants outside, and most of all: silence .

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

That’s where I started the new phase.

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 noon, I read a pocketbook, at night I watch old movies of Nora Aunor and Vilma Santos.

Quiet. Peaceful.

Marco calls every now and then. I don’t answer. There are a few texts saying “Mom, where are you?” — I just delete them. I don’t want drama. I don’t want explanations.

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

Two months have passed.

At home in Quezon City, things began to change.

My son Marco seems to have become quieter. Denise is not so grumpy anymore. But the one who has been affected the most? My grandson Jio , seven years old.

He is no longer a cheerful child. He no longer eats much. And every morning, he always asks one question:

“Where is Grandma?”

Marco and Denise don’t know how to answer. But the truth is: the child feels the loss.

Gone was the hand that always held his shoulder every night. Gone was the voice that whispered, “son, pray first.” Gone was the presence of the only person who did not judge, did not ask for anything in return, and was always there.

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

“Auntie… it’s my fault. I didn’t fight for Mama.”

Lourdes patted him, silently. She showed him a picture of me — in slippers, in a dress, smiling as I walked with other old women in the plaza. “She’s happy now. Finally.”

The next day, he found the room I was renting. Outside, there were gumamela burns. A rag was hanging on a wire. The surroundings smelled of burnt food.

Case, case.

I opened the door, holding the ladle.

I stopped. “Marco…”

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

“Mom… I’m sorry. Go home, Mom. Denise and I are sorry.”

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

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

“Why, Mom?”

I looked at him. Calmly, but with determination:

“Because I just learned to love myself. And I want to stand by that.”

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

“Grandma, you’ve been gone for so long. Don’t go away.”

I stroked his hair. He fed me his favorite boiled mung beans.

Since then, every weekend, Marco has taken Jio with him to be with me. Occasionally, Denise has also joined. She has started helping in the kitchen. We are not yet close, but we make an effort. And that is enough for me.

One day, he called.

“Mom, I cooked adobo. Would you like to eat some of this?”

I smiled. I hadn’t answered yet. But for the first time, I felt a change—not out of embarrassment, but out of genuine understanding.

The money? It’s still in the bank. I didn’t spend it in anger. It was an offering to my own peace. Because now, I’ve learned:

True love is not endless sacrifice. It must be acknowledged, respected, and have boundaries that are observed.

And this time, I won’t allow myself to be ignored again.