I had just become a widow six months earlier. My husband, Ernesto, died of a heart attack while we were having breakfast—pan de sal, kape, like every morning of our 45 years together. He kissed my forehead and said, “Good morning, mahal.” Those were his last words.
After that, Marissa suddenly became “present.” Visiting me three times a week. Helping with the wake arrangements. Accompanying me to the palengke.
She even suggested I get a full medical check-up.
“Ma, you need to take care of yourself now that you’re alone,” she’d say with a smile I thought was loving—when now I realize it was calculated.
The Tagaytay rest house had been our hard-earned sanctuary. Ernesto and I bought it when Marissa was 15. We spent every summer there—birthdays, Christmases, family reunions. Marissa brought boyfriends, then her husband Carlo. I cooked for them, cleaned for them, served them.
