After My Husband’s Funeral, My Son Drove Me Out to the Edge of Town and Said:
“This is where you get off, Mom. We can’t take care of you anymore.”

On the day we buried my husband, the sky drizzled softly.
The small black umbrella in my hands was no match for the loneliness flooding my heart. My body trembled as I held a burning stick of incense and stared at the fresh grave, its soil still damp and raw.

My companion of almost forty years—my dear Ramón—was now nothing more than a handful of cold earth.

After the funeral, I had no time to grieve. My eldest son, Jun, the one my husband trusted blindly, wasted no time in taking the house keys. Years earlier, when Ramón was still healthy, he had said to me:

“We’re getting old. Let’s put the property in Jun’s name so he can be responsible.”

I didn’t object—what parent doesn’t love their child?
And so, the house and the land were transferred into Jun’s name.

On the seventh day after the burial, Jun suggested I take a walk, “to clear my head.”
I never imagined that walk would feel like a knife in my back.

The car stopped at the far edge of town, near a lonely, abandoned jeepney stop. Jun’s voice was cold when he said:

“This is where you get off. My wife and I can’t support you anymore. From now on, you’ll have to take care of yourself.”

My ears rang. My vision went black. For a moment, I thought I had misheard him.
But the look in his eyes was firm, as if he might push me out then and there.

So I sat in shock by the roadside, beside a tiny store, with nothing but a worn cloth bag holding a few pieces of clothing.

The house—the place where I had lived, raised my children, and cared for my husband—no longer belonged to me. My name was gone from the deed. I had no right to return.

They say: “When you lose your husband, you still have your children.”
But sometimes, having children is the same as having none.

I had been cast aside by my own son.
But what Jun didn’t know was this: I was not empty-handed.

In the pocket of my blouse, I always carried a small savings book—the account Ramón and I had built quietly over decades. It held tens of millions of pesos. No one knew. Not even our children.

Ramón once told me: “People are only kind when they believe you have nothing left to give.”

That day, I chose silence.
I did not beg.
I did not reveal my secret.
I needed to see how life—and my son—would treat me when they thought I had nothing.

The first day I was left alone, I sat on the store’s porch.
The owner, Aling Nena, took pity on me and offered a cup of hot tea.
When I told her I had just lost my husband and that my children had abandoned me, she sighed deeply:

“It happens so often these days, dear. Children value money more than love.”

I rented a tiny room with the interest withdrawn from my savings. I was cautious—I told no one about the fortune I carried.

I lived simply: wearing old clothes, buying cheap food, avoiding attention.

At night, lying on a shaky bamboo bed, I often longed for my old home—the creak of the ceiling fan, the smell of Ramón’s ginger salad.
The nostalgia hurt, but I reminded myself: as long as I was alive, I had to keep moving forward.

I began adjusting to my new life.
By day, I took odd jobs at the market—washing vegetables, carrying loads, packing produce.
The pay was meager, but I didn’t care. I wanted to stand on my own feet, without pity.

The market vendors began calling me “Kind Mama Teresa.”
They never knew that each night, when I returned to my rented room, I would secretly open my savings book, glance at it for a moment, and hide it away again. That secret was my strength.

One day, I ran into an old friend—Aling Rosa, my best companion from youth.
When she saw me in that rented house, I only told her that my husband had passed and life had grown difficult.
She took pity and invited me to help at her family’s eatery.

I accepted.
The work was tough, but I had food and a bed.
That gave me even more reason to keep my fortune hidden.

Meanwhile, rumors of Jun reached my ears.
He was living with his wife and children in a spacious house, had bought a new car, but had fallen into gambling.

One acquaintance whispered:
“He probably already mortgaged the property deed.”

My heart ached to hear it, but I decided not to reach out.
He had chosen to abandon his mother at a roadside. There was nothing left to say.

One afternoon, as I was cleaning the eatery, a well-dressed but tense man appeared.
I recognized him—one of Jun’s drinking companions.

He looked at me sharply and asked:
“Are you Jun’s mother?”

I froze, then nodded.

He stepped closer, his voice urgent:
“He owes us millions of pesos. Now he’s hiding. If you still care about him, save him.”

I was stunned.
The man only gave me a bitter smile:
“I’m ruined myself. I can’t help him.”

Then he left, leaving me shaken.

I loved Jun, but I was deeply wounded.
He had abandoned me without mercy, and now he was facing the consequences of his choices.

Months later, Jun came to see me.
He was gaunt, pale, his eyes swollen from sleepless nights.
The moment he saw me, he collapsed to his knees and sobbed:

“Mother, I was wrong. I was a disgrace. Please—save me this one time. If you don’t, my whole family will be destroyed.”

My heart was torn in two.
I remembered the nights I cried over him, the pain of his betrayal.
But I also remembered Ramón’s final words before he died:

“No matter what happens, he’s still our son.”

I stayed silent for a long time.
Then I went into my room and brought out the savings book—the money Ramón and I had hidden away, worth tens of millions of pesos.

I placed it in front of Jun and looked him in the eye, my voice steady:

“This is the inheritance my parents left me. I kept it hidden because I feared you wouldn’t value it.
I’m giving it to you now. But remember this: if you ever trample on your mother’s love again, no matter how much money you have, you will never be able to lift your head with dignity.”

Jun’s hands trembled as he took the book.
He wept like a child in the rain.

Maybe he would change. Maybe he wouldn’t.
But at least I had fulfilled my last duty as a mother.

And the secret of that money—at last—was revealed, just when it was needed most.