I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room when my phone rang. It was Marissa, my only daughter. Her voice sounded strange—cold, almost rehearsed—when she said:
“Ma, we’re flying to Europe tomorrow. Your Tagaytay rest house and your car—I already sold them. We needed the money. Bye.”
And she hung up. Just like that.
Forty-five years raising her, sacrificing everything… and she threw me away like I was nothing.
But I took a deep breath and smiled, because there was something my dear daughter didn’t know.
My name is Lourdes, I’m 71, and until that moment I thought I knew my daughter.
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