I COOKED HER FOOD FOR TWO YEARS—AFTER SHE DIED, WHAT I FOUND MADE ME CRY

For two years, I had been accustomed to bringing food to my elderly neighbor, Aling Rosa. She lived alone in an old apartment at the end of the hallway of our building. Every afternoon, after I cooked for myself, I would put a dish in a small container and knock on her door.

“I have adobo now, Aling Rosa,” I would say, smiling.

She smiled back, even though her body was clearly tired. “Thank you, hija. I don’t know what I did to deserve such kindness.”

At first, I just wanted to give her simple help. But as time went on, it felt like visiting her became a part of my day. She would always talk to me—about her youth, about her supposedly soldier husband who never returned, and about her daughter who hadn’t shown up for a long time after they had an argument.

“You know, Lani,” he said once as we sat face to face at his small table, “sometimes, living alone is harder than dying. But every time you knock, it feels like my world gets lighter again.”

I just smiled, but my heart ached. Since then, I’ve made it a point to stop by even for a moment to see how he was. Sometimes, even without food, I’d bring him bread or coffee.

We were like that for two years. Until one day, I noticed that he no longer answered my knock. I went to his door for a few days, but it was quiet inside. Until paramedics and council staff arrived.

I saw them carry Aling Rosa out on a stretcher—peaceful, as if she was just sleeping.

“She’s gone,” a nurse said. “Is that you, Lani? She keeps saying your name.”

I couldn’t speak. I felt like something was stuck in my throat as I stared at his door that I used to knock on every day.

A few days later, a letter arrived from a law firm. I was sent there because Aling Rosa had left something for me. I was surprised. When I arrived, the lawyer handed me an envelope and a small key.

“She left a letter for you, and… something that I’m sure will surprise you,” the lawyer said.

I opened the envelope. Inside, Aling Rosa’s trembling handwriting read:

> “Lani, my child, if you’re reading this, I might be gone. Thank you for two years of kindness and friendship. You didn’t just feed me, you also made me feel like I still had value in the world. Before I could close my eyes, I had everything arranged. I want my little apartment to go to you. Not as payment, but as gratitude — because you filled my last years with life.”

I held my chest. “I don’t need this, Aling Rosa…” I whispered as tears flowed down my face.

The lawyer just smiled. “He arranged everything before he passed away. He said you were the son who never came back — but God gave him another son in your person.”

When I returned to Aling Rosa’s apartment, the surroundings were quiet. The curtains were drawn, and on the table was a small box. I opened it, and I saw old photos of her—with a little girl, probably her daughter. Underneath, there was another piece of paper.

> “Lani, if a woman in her fifties knocks on the door, it’s Liza — my daughter I’ve been waiting for for a long time. Please tell her I still love her. And please give her this box.”

Three months passed. One morning, while I was cleaning the kitchen of the apartment, someone knocked.

When I opened it, it was a woman holding an old photo. “Excuse me… I’m looking for Rosa Mendoza. She’s my mother.”

I was stunned. I pulled the box from the closet and handed it to her. “She left this for you.”

Her hand trembled as she opened the box. She read the letter as tears silently streamed down her face. “I thought she hated me…”

I held her hand. “No. She still loved you until the end.”

We both sat on the old chair by the window where Aling Rosa and I often had coffee. As we watched the sunset outside the apartment window, I felt Aling Rosa’s presence—it was as if she was still there, smiling.

And that’s when I learned that family is not measured by blood. Sometimes, all it takes is a plate of adobo and a sincere concern to fill a heart that has long been thirsty for love