Tinitigan ko siya nang may luha sa aking mga mata. Siya ang aking anak.

Isang marka ang nabuo sa aking kamay—maitim, pangit, at hindi mabubura. Isang sugat ng kawalang-galang. Hanggang ngayon, minsan ko pa rin itong hinahaplos, binabalikan ang sandaling unang itinaas niya ang kanyang kamay laban sa akin. Ang unang pagkakataong ang pagmamahal ay naging karahasan. Nabigo ako bilang isang ina. Nabigo akong ituro sa kanya ang paggalang—sa babae, at sa awtoridad!

“A mother’s love is something that no one can explain—it is made of deep devotion and of sacrifice and pain. It is endless and unselfish and enduring, come what may, for nothing can destroy it or take that love away.”

— Helen Steiner Rice, from “The Poems and Prayers of Helen Steiner Rice”

The World I Built for Him

I was excited to be a mother. It took more than two years to finally conceive. No wonder that upon discovering I was two months pregnant, I was already wearing maternity clothing. He was born in 2010, and since that moment, he has become my world. He is not just a part of my world but the entirety of it. My mother named him LJ. In his innocent face, I saw every hope I had ever held for myself. I will provide him with the best. From the beginning, I vowed to offer him everything: the experiences and opportunities I never had.

It was my ultimate dream to become a traveler. When I was a kid, my mother promised us a vacation in Laguna. That could not have happened. Now, by the time he was five, we had begun our tradition of traveling—international at first, then locally. In fact, his first flight experience was in Singapore, and a few years had passed before he experienced a local flight.

We explored a lot. We explored various theme parks in different cities, museums, cuisines that challenged and delighted his young palate, and cultures that widened his eyes with wonder. I love roller coasters, and I never had that experience as a child. Eventually, LJ became the ticket to my childhood emptiness. By twelve, his passport held nearly ten international stamps, each one a testament to the life I was determined to build for him. Those years glittered in my memory like coins at the bottom of a wishing well: bright, untouchable, and full of promises I believed I could keep.

He was a cheerful child, very sweet and malambing—affectionate in the way that Filipino children often are, unashamed of tenderness. We exchanged “I love you” and “Mahal kita” every day, the words becoming a rhythm as natural as breathing. His embrace at night was my sleeping pill; his smiles and laughter, my instant dopamine. If I were Batman, he would be my Robin—always at my side, always ready for whatever adventure awaited us.

My Little Sentinel

My son was once my steadfast helper in every household task. During laundry time, he took charge of rinsing the clothes after I washed them with soap—a duty he embraced with pure joy and love, delighting in the splash and shimmer of water against his small hands. I am so proud of him!

Then came my father’s retirement, and with it, a storm we never saw coming. A series of hospital visits and confinement began—Calapan City, then Lipa City, back and forth in an exhausting blur of worry and waiting rooms. Through it all, my little sentinel remained by my side, his presence a symbol of light in those darkest hours. I am filled with problems physically, mentally, emotionally, and financially. He became my happy pill and my instant strength, the one constant that kept my spirit intact when everything else seemed to be crumbling.

The pandemic arrived like a thief, stealing normalcy from the world. It also revealed something in my son that I had not anticipated. During those two years, as the world remained silent, LJ held my hand. My father’s sickness worsened due to his kidney failure, requiring dialysis three times a week, and I drove him to the hospital at impossible hours—sometimes his dialysis schedule began at nine in the evening and ended at midnight. The silent night and the police checkpoints witnessed our patience and sacrifice. LJ never complained. He is as strong as my will to face the challenges in life. He sat beside me in the waiting room, a small sentinel keeping watch over my breaking heart. As I looked closely at him while he slept in the back of our SUV, which we named “Monty,” I felt a deep sense of love. A feeling of happiness emerged at the break of darkness, a feeling deeply felt by a mother.  I always told myself, “Basta’t kasama ko siya, hindi ako mapapagod”[Whenever I am with him, I’ll never become tired].

When I taught online classes, rising at dawn to prepare lessons, he would notice when ten o’clock came, and I had not eaten. He would go to the kitchen—this twelve-year-old boy—and prepare breakfast for me with the same careful plating I had taught him when preparing his meals. He also prepared juice or a chocolate drink. In those moments, I believed we had built something unbreakable. My Robin never failed to make my heart flutter.

But after the pandemic lifted, something shifted. We bought a tablet for him as a token of our affection and a promise to reciprocate his kindness. The games that had been an entertainment during lockdown became an obsession. His anger grew easily, his words turning sharp as broken glass. He trash-talked his online opponents with a venom I did not recognize. “Mga hayoooopp kayo! Ang tatanga nyo!!!!” [You are all idiots!]. As I insist on my authority as a mother and give him discipline, these moments become a nightmare I never imagined.

As the days went by, my money began disappearing—he was stealing from us to buy virtual weapons and gems, pixelated treasures that meant everything to him and nothing to me. When he broke his phone in a fit of rage, I replaced it. When he broke the next vape, I replaced it as well. I watched him discover vaping, watched his attendance at school collapse, and watched the adviser’s messages pile up in my inbox like accusations. These burdens began to weigh heavily on me. The things are very difficult to carry.

That Heartache

March 2022. It was my first major heartache—the kind that leaves more than emotional scars. It seems like a mother’s nightmare!

He was glued to his phone as usual while I asked him to open the gates. My students were waiting outside to submit their portfolios. His addiction, his singular focus—always the phone. Mobile Legends, which you cannot pause. The game that destroyed my son. The game that destroyed us. His focus is never on me. Never what mattered.

I was already on the edge of the cliff.  For days, he hadn’t been attentive. He wasn’t listening. The frustration had been building, spreading like a wound left untended. Bloody. That day, I snapped. I nagged. I shouted so hard due to disappointment. I let my anger spill over.

His response was unbelievable. My son, who used to be sweet. He threw a punch—square on my arm. I was shocked. Am I dreaming?

We fought like strangers in the street, like two people who shared no history, no blood, no connections. I fought back with everything I had. The pain was searing, but what hurt more was the impossibility of it all. As much as I wanted to strike harder, to make him feel what he’d made me feel—I couldn’t.

He was my son.

A mark formed on my hand, dark and ugly. A wound of disrespect. Even now, I trace it sometimes, remembering the first time he raised his hands against me. The first time love felt like violence. I failed as a mother. I failed to teach him respect for women and authority.

May 2022, when he asked if we could go to Legoland Japan. Despite everything, despite the bruises still fading from my skin and my heart, I said yes. I booked flights to Nagoya for November, desperate to show him he was still loved, that I hadn’t given up.

But the months between May and November were a war of destruction. The usual problems resurfaced, relentless as waves. He refused to go to school. He drowned himself in games. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to listen or obey. His words became weapons—trash talk, cruelty disguised as banter.

Then, the day before our flight, he made his decision: he wouldn’t go. I cried. He doesn’t care about my tears. He seems heartless.

I went alone. I felt a little nervous. But I believe I can. I should. I would.

In the streets of Japan, I felt the heartache all over again—sharp, unforgiving. I poured all the tears. The cold November air seemed to seep into my chest, freezing the chambers of my heart one by one. I wandered through Nagoya, surrounded by families, by mothers and sons laughing together, and I had never felt more alone.

He regretted it later. He told me he wished he’d come.

But it was too late. Some doors, once closed, can never be opened again.

The Wound I Made

I blamed myself. I still do. It is natural for a mother to discipline her child, to correct and guide. But somewhere along the way, my guidance became expectation, and my expectation became weight. I compared him to myself at his age—

“Bakit hindi niya kayang gawin ang aking mga naaccomplish?” [Why couldn’t he accomplish what I had accomplished?]

“Bakit hindi niya kaya ang aking mga nagawa?” [Why couldn’t he be what I had been?]

“Noong bata pa ako, may family problem din kami, pero kaming magkapatid ay laging nag-uuwi ng medalya. Taon-taon, pinapaakyat ko si Nanay sa stage! Bakit ikaw, komportable na nga ang buhay mo, puro problema pa ang dala mo!” [When I was young, we had family problems too, but my sibling and I brought home medals. Year after year, I brought my mother up on stage! Why do you, despite having a comfortable life, only bring problems?]

“Ang gagawin niya lang ay mag-aral pero hindi pa niya magawa” [All he has to do is study, and he still can’t do it.]

His room is complete like a hotel—big smart TV, air conditioning, fragrant humidifier, shower heater… such a lucky child! But disrespectful to his parents, I usually told him. I was unaware that each comparison and nag felt like a wound, as if I was slicing him apart with the sharp edge of my tongue. Until now, I had never forgiven myself. I am still carrying the guilt. I could have been kinder. Sana tiniis ko pa. [I wish I had endured it longer.]

A Mother’s Wound

The episodes grew worse. Uncontrollable. He is stronger than before.

He told me he wanted to kill me.

Ang mga salitang kanyang binitawan ay pumailanlang sa hangin na parang sentensya ng kamatayan—malamig, hindi mapapatawad, imposibleng maibalik! Hindi kapani-paniwala! Ang aking anak. Ang aking sanggol. Ang aking bukang liwayway at kaligayahan. Ang aking sariling laman at dugo. Ang batang dinala ko sa kaibuturan ng aking puso, ang batang inihele ko sa aking mga bisig, ang batang ikamamatay ko para protektahan—tiningnan ako ng kanyang mga matang walang takot na hindi ko na makilala at ang mga salitang dumurog sa lahat na sa aking pagkakaalam ay tungkol sa pagmamahal. [The words hung in the air like a death sentence—cold, unforgiving, impossible to take back. Unbelievable! My own son. My baby. My sunshine and happiness. My own flesh and blood. The child I carried beneath my heart, the baby I cradled in my arms, the boy I would have died to protect—he looked at me with his fearless eyes I no longer recognized and spoke words that shattered everything I thought I knew about love.]

He said he hated me.

Pagkamuhi. Mula sa labi ng batang lalaki na minsa’y hinalikan ko bago matulog. Mula sa boses na minsa’y kinantahan ko ng mga awiting pampatulog. Paanong makakaya ng isang ina na marinig ang parang nakalalasong mga salita mula sa kaluluwang dinala niya sa mundong ito? Bawat sakripisyong aking ginawa, bawat tila walang tulog na mga gabi, bawat hiling na nasambit sa bawat gabi—tila nauwi sa kawalan? Naging halimaw na ba talaga ako sa kanyang paningin kung kaya nararapat ako sa kanyang pagkamuhi? [Hatred. From lips of a young boy I once kissed goodnight. From a voice I once soothed with lullabies. How does a mother survive hearing such venom from the very soul she brought into this world? Every sacrifice I made, every sleepless night, every wish whispered into the darkness—did they mean nothing? Had I become so monstrous in his eyes that I deserved his hatred?

Ganoon na ba ako kasama para kanyang isumpa?! [Have I really been that terrible for him to curse me like this?!]

These words tore me apart. Words in the dictionary are not enough to describe the pain and wounds I am enduring. My tears are overflowing.

Hindi ako basta sinugatan—ako’y winasak. Ito’y nakarating sa pinakamalalim na silid ng aking puso at pinunit ang lahat na may kaugnayan sa aking pagiging ina, lahat ng sagrado, lahat ng bagay na naging dahilan para ako ay maging ina. Nalampasan ko ang mga sakit noon, subalit wala—walang katumbas ang paghihirap ng kamuhian ka ng sarili mong anak. [It didn’t just wound me—it destroyed me. It reached into the deepest chamber of my heart and ripped out everything maternal, everything sacred, everything that made me his mother. I have survived pain before, but nothing—nothing—compares to the agony of being hated by your own child.]

The falling of my tears became a regular habit. My eyes and my heart were used to it.

Ang aking pag-iyak ay tila kasing dali ng paghinga. Luha sa paglubog ng araw, luha sa hatingggabi, luha na dumadating nang walang pabatid kahit sa gitna ng ordinaryong sandali. Alam ng aking unan ang aking pagdurusa. Nasaksihan ng aking mga panyo ang aking paghihirap. Ang katahimikan ng aking silid ay bumubulong na may kasamang hikbi na hindi ko na halos kayanin. Ako ay parang naging multo ng sarili kong buhay, hinahanap ng mga salitang hindi ko malilimutan, nakakulong sa sakit na hindi ko matakasan. [I cry now as easily as I breathe. Tears at the break of dawn, tears at midnight, tears that come without warning in the middle of ordinary moments. My pillow knows my grief. The handkerchiefs witnessed my suffering. The silence of my room whispers with sobs I can no longer contain. I have become a ghost in my own life, haunted by words I cannot forget, imprisoned by a pain I cannot escape.]

I am totally destroyed.

Ako ay winasak. Nilipol. Inuubos ang laman. Naupos na parang kandila. Ang inang dati ay kumpleto, buo at tila hindi magigiba, ngayon ay nagdurusa sa pait ng tinuran ng kanyang anak. Tila mga abo na kinain ng apoy. Walang awa…walang konsensya. Ako ay buhay pa subalit patay na ang diwa. Humihinga ako, ngunit ang bawat hininga ay isang pagpupumilit laban sa pusong gustong huminto.[ I have been shattered. Destroyed. Hollowed out. Burned down like a candle. The mother I once was—complete, whole, and seemingly unbreakable—now suffers from the bitterness of her child’s words. Like ashes consumed by fire. Without mercy…without conscience. I am still alive, but my spirit is dead. I am breathing, but every breath is an act of will against a heart that wants to stop.]

And still—with all the words he uttered—I still love him… with all my heart and soul.

The Temporary Peace

But after each explosion and exchange of harsh and cursing words, he would return to his gentle self and being malambing. I would welcome him into my open arms, believing the storm had passed. Bebeybihinko na naman [babied him again]. But the storm never truly passed. It only gathered strength for the next landfall day by day. My anxiety deepened into depression. I began to have thoughts of ending my life. I am hopeless and lack motivation to continue. How could I end my life in a way that would not be recognized as suicide? Each morning turned into a struggle against despair.

Four Handkerchiefs

In March 2024, we made a difficult decision that no parent should ever have to make. LJ would go to a rehabilitation center in Quezon City. We told him we were taking a vacation—that his father’s aunt had returned from the UK and we would celebrate together. In the days before we left, I pampered him. I could not stop crying. He was confused by my tears, and I kept telling him, through my sobs, to be strong even if I was not beside him.  “Anak, be strong kahit wala si Mommy sa tabi mo.” [Anak, stay strong even if Mommy is not beside you.] He then thumbs up as if nothing will happen.

When we arrived at the facility, they separated us. It was the most painful separation I have ever experienced. I will miss his sweetness towards me. His thoughtfulness. His kisses and hugs remind me I am also his world.  He thought it was a hotel. When my husband and I sat in the office to sign the contracts, the tears came like a faucet that could not be closed. On the journey home—from Manila to Batangas, then by boat to my province in Oriental Mindoro—I went through four handkerchiefs I bought when we were at the mall buying his stuff.  Those hankies are filled with tears and witnessed how brave I was facing this kind of challenge. My husband flew to Dubai for work, and I was left alone with the absence of my son.

For two months, I could not visit. No pictures were allowed, only phone calls through a nurse attendant. His birthday came in June, the saddest of my life. We celebrated it at the facility. He is surrounded by strangers who are carrying each other’s problems. A few months had passed; he pleaded so desperately that we did not complete the six-month program. We missed him too much. The facility had given us too few updates, which made us uncomfortable, and the silence had become unbearable.

History Repeating

He came home in July 2024. We traveled together again—Baguio City, Manila, Isabela—trying to rebuild what had fractured. I am trying to catch up what is missing. I am still hoping for a peaceful life.  My mistake was giving him my iPhone, believing I could control what he installed. I could not. He is stronger. The threats returned. He refused to go to school again. History repeated itself with the precision of a curse. He still cannot move on. The wound I gave him is still there. Still fresh with blood and tears.

My husband decided to transfer our son to his hometown in Romblon to give him a fresh start. At first, everything seemed fine. However, his cellphone and gaming addiction continued. It worsens. I was horrified to learn that he had been bullying one of his classmates for losing his father—this is not the child I know. He’s had conflicts with his classmates and has become disrespectful toward my husband. His presence has become a burden to my mother-in-law, and I’m deeply worried.

In January 2025, I found another facility, this one in Silang, Cavite. It was more affordable, and the staff was kind and accommodating. They sent regular updates and photographs—small mercies that made the separation bearable. The contract was for eight months, with no visitation for the first five. Difficult and unbearable, but we have to endure it. We exchanged letters through Messenger, printed and delivered by the staff, our words traveling a digital bridge to reach each other’s hands. This time, I was hoping we could repair the broken pieces in our hearts that separated us.

My fortieth birthday came in April. I spent it in Ilocos Norte and Ilocos Sur, without him. I am alone, meditating, crying, and blaming myself. It could have been a happy memory, as we usually experience.  In the months before his discharge, I visited to tutor him, preparing him for his return to school. September 15, 2025, was to be the day—the day he would finally come home for good.

The Day That Was Supposed to Be

That day arrived like a wish from a genie in a bottle. Before returning to our province, we ate at Vikings, a buffet restaurant in SM Sta. Rosa. I bought him clothes, shoes, and a new bag for school. He was kind, gentle—my LJ again. My sweet sunshine. We booked flights to Singapore and tricity trip for Christmas, inviting his cousins and my aunt’s family to join us. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted to believe that this time would be different.

Two weeks later, the nightmare returned like a thief. No signals, no warnings. He threatened to kill me again. He threatened to burn our house. He had no cellphone this time—I had been so careful—but the wounds I had inflicted with my words over the years had not healed. The pain is still raw, and the tears of hatred continue to flow. They had only hidden in the dark. He refused to go to school. He is not listening to me. My authority is powerless. The words I had spoken to him in anger, the comparisons, and the disappointments I had let him see in my eyes—they all came back to me in his rage. He keeps on blaming me for what happened.

I was hopeless. We called the police and sought help. I have no choice. What if he does something irreversible? The DSWD personnel came. The barangay officials arrived at our door. He threatened them all as if he were a criminal. He is holding a knife. I stood in my own home, surrounded by strangers in uniform, and felt the full weight of my failure as a mother. The decision was made: he would return to the facility in Cavite. After hours of what they call pagwawala—uncontrolled outbursts—more than ten people had to carry him out. The police broke down part of our house to reach him. An ambulance took him away while I watched, unable to do anything but witness the destruction of everything we had tried to build.

The Empty Seat

December 2025, as I write this, he has been at the facility for two months receiving his treatment. The tricity trip, Singapore City, Batam City, Indonesia and Johor Bahru City, Malaysia was originally planned and booked for him. This trip will proceed without him. His seat is still there, but it remains empty. Christmas holidays will come, and he will not be beside me. We are supposed to be happy, celebrating the holidays. The tree will be lit, the food will be prepared, and his chair will sit vacant.

I did not expect this cruel life. When he was a baby, I feared the natural separation that comes when children grow—college in Manila, a prestigious school far from home.  I did not imagine that the distance between us would be measured not in kilometers but in wounds, not in years but in episodes, not in growth but in grief.

And yet, I must be strong—stronger than I have ever been. Motherhood, I have learned, is not only the joy of holding your child close. It is also the agony of letting go, of watching them struggle with demons you cannot fight for them, of loving them enough to send them away so they might heal. It is standing in the wreckage of your best intentions and choosing, still, to hope.

I am waiting for the coming months to be different. Sana humupa na ang bagyo [I hope the storm subsides now]. I am waiting for my son to return to me whole. Healed and ready for a fresh start. I am waiting, as all mothers do, for the child I love to find his way back—not to who he was, but to who he might become. Until then, I hold the memory of his embrace, his laughter, and his voice saying, “Mahal kita, Mommy.” Until then, I carry the weight of letting go.

To My Son LJ:

Anak, please forgive me. I am sorry for not being a good mom. I am sorry for giving you wounds that are difficult to heal. I am always waiting for the time when you will forgive me with your loving heart. I will stay even if it is forever.

I will never get tired of waiting for your healing—no matter how long the journey stretches before us. Sana dumating na ang araw na maghilom ang mga sugat ng hidwaan. Nawa ay mawala na sa iyong alaala at wala nang iiwang pilat ng nakaraan na iyong kaytagal na tiniis. [May the day come when your battle wounds fade into memory, leaving no trace of the pain you’ve endured.]

Know this with absolute certainty: I have always loved you. Walang oras, minuto o segundo na hindi kita naaalala. [Not an hour, minute, or second passes without me thinking of you.] Through every trial, every dark hour, every moment of struggle—my love has never faded, never dimmed, never grown shattered. Mahal na mahal kita!!! [I love you so much!!!]

The Good Memories

For now, what I have in me are happy memories. His smiles and laughter are within my heart.

I am still longing for his embrace. His sweet kisses.

I still wanted to eat the food he usually prepared. His facial expression as he happily waits for my reaction and appreciation of his thoughtfulness.

I am still waiting for his “pagsalubong” whenever I arrive from work. He will help me carry my bags.

I miss looking at the backseat of our Monty, looking at him while he fell asleep patiently waiting for me.  

I have no option but to stay strong, and I shouted from nowhere, “Ibalik ninyo ang anak ko!” [Please give me back my son!”] … That sweet child of mine!

Isinasalaysay ng sanaysay na ito ang mabigat na paglalakbay ng isang ina sa pagitan ng sakit, pagsisisi, at pananatiling matatag para sa anak na pansamantalang wala sa kanyang piling. Ang akdang ito ay patunay na ang pag-ibig ay nananatili kahit sa gitna ng kawalan.

This essay was first published in Pacificus: A Literary Magazine under the Binas Publications.