“He Thought His Mother Had Been Completely WIPED OUT — But When He Returned to the Philippines, He Was the One Who Lost Everything!”
I thought she cherished those memories.
Turns out she only saw money.
And the car—a red vintage jeepney Ernesto restored himself over the years. It still smelled like him. It was the last piece of him I had left.
When Marissa hung up on me, I sat there on that uncomfortable plastic chair, surrounded by sick people—and for the first time in months, I didn’t cry.
Because suddenly I remembered something I had completely forgotten.
Three days before Ernesto died, he gave me a brown envelope.
“Lourdes,” he said, “keep this in the dresser. If anything happens to me, open it when you’re ready.”
I tucked it away and with all the chaos and grief, I forgot.
But it was waiting for me at home.
The nurse called my name, the doctor checked me, said I was healthy for my age.
I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere—on that envelope, on Marissa’s cold voice, on Carlo, who never liked me and always treated me like a burden.
I took the jeepney home—because according to Marissa, I no longer had a car.
And as I waited at the terminal, I actually smiled.
There was something poetic about all this.
