His Fatherly Love

By Enrica Maria Corazon Edralin

I’m not afraid to be hurt when I fall in love. I was taught that love is equated with pain. I will only realize that what I feel is love when I already felt pain. Pain is defined to be a symptom of some physical hurt or disorder. There is no pain, there is no love.


When I was a child, I used to play with my friends every after class. Different games are to be played each day. I only remember the game we play on Thursdays – the dakop-dakop. It was a predator searching of its prey type of game. My friends and I play this sweat-releasing game in the quadrangle of my grade school. I scream, shout, and run as fast as I could so that the hungered predator will not catch me. If I’m caught and become the “it”, I run faster to grasp my prey. Fairly, everyone becomes a predator of the game before the first round ends.

My typical after-class routine ended on a sunny Thursday afternoon sometime in 1999. I gleefully enjoyed playing dakop-dakop that I forgot the time. It was already thirty minutes after five. I had already been playing for two hours. To my surprise, my father went inside the school campus to fetch me. He was really mad that he was already waiting for me for an hour outside the school. When he was approaching, he dragged me to the green grassy area, just 50 to 100 steps away from the cemented quadrangle. He held his leather belt and smacked me in front of my classmates.

I was so embarrassed that I speedily ran away from him. I wished not to stop running, but I halted suddenly. My heart was intensely pounding. I was hurt for being humiliated in front of my friends. However, it hurts more knowing that my father hit me with leather belt just because I was playing too much in a late afternoon.

In that particular moment, I was really afraid to come home because I feared that my father will hit me more. My mother looked for me in the campus, and found me sitting on the bench under the aged mango tree. She consoled and assured me that she’ll protect me once my father will hit me again. My mother is always like that. When my father would inflict pain on me and on my brothers, she would always run close to us and would hug us tightly. Sometimes, she spares me from the fourth and fifth strike of my father’s belt. Instead of me, she would be hit.



Eventually, I get in the car with my shivering hands and feet. I was gnashing my teeth. I was glad that my father was driving. His hands were busy maneuvering the stirring wheel. He had no opportunity to slap me. I stopped crying, because if I cry more, he’ll hit me again.

At that time my thighs had violet-blue stripes that almost looked like the street’s pedestrian lane. Those stripes are receipts of my submission to pay for my fault. Silence deafens me as I recover from trembling and crying. My elder brother would hand out an ice bag to relieve the pain of my thighs. I knew he was empathizing, because he also had felt similar pain several times in his life.

After ten minutes of sobbing, my mother informed me that I must go to my father and say sorry. Up to this day, I don’t understand why I must say sorry after every “ritual of discipline” – a manner to express my father’s fatherly love. I’m obliged to say sorry with the fright that if I wouldn’t, I might be hit by my father’s mighty leather belt again. With fear in my face and heart, I approached my father and utter ed the scripted words my mother instructed me to say, “I’m sorry. I will never do it again.” My father would then let me sit on his lap and he’ll say the line I always hear, “pinangga man gud ka, mao bunalan ka” or “love man gud ka mao bunalan ka”. In context it means, “You’re loved that’s why you’re being hurt”. The love that my father instills to me reflected on my bruised thighs.

Belt-beating had always been an exchange for failing to comply with my father’s rules. His rules are arbitrary, and they’re neither written nor said. I traumatically learned not to complain, do things as fast as I could, and to always be on time. I have to be punished before I will know what is right.

The right thing I knew on that experience was time is important. I can lose my pride and self-worth if I become late. On the evening of the same day, I decided to never let my father inflict pain on me again. I adored my father for being a genius to equate love with pain. However, I felt like was more of a genius because I realized that inflicting pain is not an expression of love. Pain is a symptom of hatred. Hatred is the antonym of love.

I had hated my father for being a punishing father. I could never accept that he compromises his love for me through smacking me with his leather belt. I wished he didn’t have any leather belt at all. I resisted accepting his love for me because I feared that its exchange is to be hurt again.


I later grew up having one fear in my heart – to be hurt because of love. My father had molded me to doubt on any man’s love. I learned not to trust any man who promised to love me. In the back of my mind, I mock the promises of love. If love brings pain and agony, I would rather choose to reject love.

I’m afraid of love but ironically, I love to love. Unlike my father, I believe that love is not equal with pain. Love brings happiness, while pain doesn’t. Although being hurt is my greatest fear, I think I’m strong enough to experience pain. My father’s concept of love had trained me to face love’s alter ego – pain.

Cruelty

By Quincy Feliscuzo

I grew up in a harsh family. A family that follows the Spanish tradition. I believe I was lucky to be raised and educated by a religious society. But on the other side of the coin, I hate it. My father never believed in the family tradition though his experiences were quite brutal and sadistic, he never showed me how to be whipped by a carabao's rope or plunged my face on the pigs food. He did not beat me like other parents do to their children. Until, the unexpected cruelty came in my life. Something I though as bad or inhuman.

When I was 8 years old, we moved from Iloilo to Mangagoy, the place where my father's family lived and founded. He asked his younger sister to let us live in their vacant house beside their old house. She permitted us. We did not rent it, but as expected of occupying their vacant house, we are obliged to help them.

I already knew that my aunt was a cruel person. I heard stories from her adopted children ( she did not have her own because of her impotency), about their harsh treatment like being beaten with fire wood or by hangers and other things she can get her hands on. But never in my young mind did thought of being treated in the same manner. Yes, I expected she'd be harsh but not to the extent.

Every day I am tasked to water the plants, fetch water from the poso, feed the chickens and pigs. I never complained nor talked back because I knew that I be assaulted with missile like words or hit by a plastic hanger. I did these chores everyday, sick or healthy. I never showed hate or fear. I just smiled like a moron.

My aunt was the type of person, no one would like to mess with. She's intelligent but arrogant. When she's angry, all of us would not talk, nor do stupid things, fearing that we might get beaten. She was the person who will beat any one available with or without reason. That's why all of her siblings are angry with her. She looks down on every one as if they're ants and she's the giant.

I first experienced her beatings was when I was 9 years old. It happened on the summer of 2000. After dinner my younger cousin and I asked her permission to watch TV in the neighbor. She agreed with us but not to get home late. So after the TV show, we went home.

Bang! a painful stroke hit me in the ribs. I tried to reason out but she kept denying that we asked her permission. Bang! again but this time a slap in the face hit me. She told me that we were lying. Then pinch in the left ear. And the last was an awesome kick in the stomach. I accepted all her punishment. Without talking back or crying. Because if I did, it would only show that I am lying.

Today, I still feel her cruelty although we have left her house and jurisdiction. She still appear on my thoughts as a young man. Maybe my past is somewhat connected to the future but I don't think I'll apply what she had done to me on my younger cousins or even to my children in the future. I don't want them to feel my pain. but I want them to understand the pain that I had gone through.

I never dared to question my father's decision. And I never regret that I had lived with my aunt. She gave me the best answer to a question I was trying to understand during the time of pain and suffering from loneliness. She placed me on a position that I never wanted. A place in my life that everything is made up of cruelty and sufferings.



Now, that I am a college student, I have learned to endure the tough situations and troubles coming my way. I am now tough and I have understood how pain made me a monster. And of course, I have understood why my father decided that we live with her. That is to learn how cruelty makes a person gentle but tough to live and survive the cruel and harsh world I am existing.

Favoured Hands

By Edjan Parreno

I was eight years old then, a small and a grade three pupil, coming home tired and very exhausted from school, when I saw my dad holding a rubber packed with yellow net and transparent cellophane. I never knew what it was until my father decided to get the pin inside the cellophane and injected it inside the rubber’s hole. He then took the air pump and put it on the other side of the pin. Slowly the rubber was formed into somewhat round until it became really round. It was a ball, a basketball.

Many have said that my father is a good basketball player, the time when his age and body was still capable of doing so. He was always winning championships in barrio basketball tournaments when he was still in high school and winning seven consecutive basketball championships during his working career. That is my father and he is a proof of a good basketball player.

Later that afternoon, my father approached me while holding the ball in his right hand saying, “be good” and left the ball in my hands. It was somewhat heavy at first but as my excitement increased, the more it became weightless. I tried to dribble it but the ball kept on going from left to right. Perhaps the ball was just too big for me but even though that’s the case, I never became discouraged; instead I kept on practicing and let everyone see what my hands can do.

I trained so hard practicing the basic skills of dribbling but whenever my father saw me, he always kept on saying to practice shooting because dribbling can’t earn a point. He talked a lot of plays and strategies for me to analyze and figure out but for me, it was just a waste of time. I don’t even know what was that for because for me, dribbling especially dribbling exhibitions is better to look at than shooting. Most of my practice is self-taught and sometimes with the aid of those sports clinic shown in television, I discovered some things and applied it to my training.



One early morning, I decided to go to our basketball court. There were no players then and I began to roam around the court while dribbling. I was amazed how vast the court was unlike my playing area in our house which is only 25 square meters. I started to go to our court from time to time until I decided to join a basketball game. It was my first time playing it and I started to realize how hard it is to win a game if you don’t know how to shoot the ball well. Then I began to remember what my father said while I’m still practicing at home but I could not remember a single thing because I never listened to him. In that game, I fully understand what my father was talking about. He didn’t only want me to just practice but he wanted me to practice the necessary things that is very applicable in a real game. It is like thinking first what will happen before starting to do a certain job or task.

When I was in grades five and six, I became a basketball varsity player. In there I was taught the basics, the basic warm-ups, the proper dribbling, the proper ball handling and et cetera. Making those practices maximizes the things that my hands can do.

Even though my hands were first trained to be a basketball player, it seemed that it became versatile in any sport that I joined. Even in taking responsibilities at home. My hands were trained to wash the dishes, wash the clothes, iron the clothes and cut the grasses that are growing around our house. Taking care of the responsibilities at home started to become part of my life when one day, I was told by my mother to buy some detergent powder at store. When I got to the store, old woman which is the owner approached me and I said “two packs of a detergent powder for me”. She then asked me, “Are you the one who will wash the clothes?”, then I said “Yes, definitely”, the old woman again replied, “That’s right! As a guy, you have the strength and the capability of doing household chores”. Then I said to myself, “Wow! My hands can do many things”.


Now that I am an adult who also works in a band and plays the bass guitar, I came to a point of realization where my hands don’t only teach me to be excellent in sports, in household chores or in becoming a musician, but also teaches me how to become mature enough to handle life’s challenges and circumstances. When my father gave that ball to me when I was a child and said “be good”, what he wanted to say to me was, “be good in everything that your hands can do. Explore the things that you want to explore and maximize the use of your hand to get enough of it”. Because of this, I just wanted to thank God that He has given me this set of hands normally and perfectly so that I can use it in my still continuing life.

Rosary: A Symbolism of Religiousness

By Dolly Jane Ranises

It goes with different colors, sizes and length but it is has only one shape, sphere. It may be made of plastic, wood or metal beads. These beads are interconnected to each other through a string and they must not be separated as it is an indication of bad luck and misfortune. Some of these have a certain fragrance which is released when you open its box while some are not. No matter what this thing looks like, no matter how perfumed it is, no matter how expensive this thing is: it only symbolizes one thing, that is being devoted and faithful to the religion. This is the rosary.

When I was six, I would always see my mother holding the rosary tightly while praying. She would enthusiastically invite me to join her. As a kid, during that time innocent, I perceived it not as an invitation but as a command of an authority. So I would join her trying to be obedient. However, it became a habit to me to pray with her as she would influence me saying that “Women must learn and be experts in praying the rosary because they are the ones who would always lead the prayer.”

When I was ten, I already knew that I belonged to a religious family. my mother was a rosary devotee and my father was reading the bible everyday and obliged the family to attend Sunday mass. I defined religious as being very devoted to the church, would celebrate every Christian feast as assigned by the Catholic Church, and memorizing every chapter and verse of the bible. Our family would go to church together every Sunday and would pray the rosary before the Christmas Day and New Year’s Day approach as my mother initiated these activities. I was raised this way because our family especially my mother believes that “the family prays together stays together.” This may sound very cliché but it kept our family together for a certain period of time. This also maintained our tight family relationship through her untiring and never ending religious beliefs. While growing up, I was able to adapt this kind of belief. All the goodness in life was thought and implemented to me. As my innocence was bombarding me, I followed those preaches to remain righteous.

I had this foolish attitude during my childhood boasting to my childhood friends how perfect my family is and comparing my family’s achievement to their family’s imperfection. I was very harsh during that time and very idealistic about the things around me. Though I had consistent playmates, I felt that they thought of me as spoiled brat who was so proud of her family that she seemed to forget the values taught to her. I was not that righteous after all.

When I saw my father nagging and hitting my Kuya with belt because he failed his academic performance my idealistic perception about my family reversed. My mother did not even attempt to stop his unmerciful action to my Kuya. I tried to stop my father but he seemed just to hear me but not listening to me. I could still recall the scenes of that event. The belt was leather with a brown surface. My Kuya was on the bed’s right corner trying to avoid the painful hit of the belt. He was crying and screaming at the same time. I also cried because of pity and empathy.


I was more discouraged than fearful to my parents’ deed during that time. Discouraged of the learning they taught us about being religious. My perceptions to them altered. My expectations to them as being religious were slowly fading. If they were religious and righteous, then why would he beat his son and why would she allow her husband to beat his son just because of a failing grade. But I never hated them for breaking the perfection I believed in religiousness while I was growing up.

I learned from this event that I must strive hard so that I would excel academically. I must make sure that I do not only have passing grades but top grades to make them proud. Because I know that I do not want to physically and emotionally experience what my Kuya had experienced. I do not desire to come in contact with the same belt which hit his flesh and made a scar on his legs.

But the major insight of this event is that religiousness is not proportional to perfection which leads to righteousness. That my family is not perfect and righteous just because we are practicing acts of religiousness. And that being religious does not prevent my parents from committing a sin of beating my Kuya and hurting my feelings for doing it. Thus, my family is not righteous after all. We are not a perfect family that people look up to.


Lastly, the religiousness of my family can sometimes be hypocrisy. Hypocrisy of being sinless and flawless of any mistakes when in fact all of us are sinful. Hypocrisy of being too good that claims perfection and righteousness. Hypocrisy of devotion to the religion that one is really dedicated and committed to it and showing to the world that he is a righteous person. Because of this I become afraid to be religious as I am scared of being hypocrite. It does not also lessen my beliefs to God and that religiousness does not measure my capabilities as a Christian. I could say that faith and religiousness are two different aspects because one can be faithful to God, that is spirituality.

Words Worth Keeping

By Jewel Rose Torotoro

When I woke up early in the morning, my father always told me, “ang bunso nako mata na (my youngest girl is awake already)” and then he will play and tickle me. Unending laughter from the two of us couldn’t stop. Those moments were in my grades 1 and 2. For me, it was so nice hearing that line coming from my father’s mouth. I was very happy every time he spent his time playing with me. For me, everything he did was an assurance that he will always be there for her youngest girl.


In my 3rd and 4th grade, his famous, previous, repeated line, “ang bunso nako (my youngest girl)” had an additional line which goes like this, “lang, humana sa imong pagskwela before ka mag-uyab-uyab ha (finish your studies first before having a boyfriend)” which didn’t really matter to me since it never crossed my mind having a boyfriend at that age. He kept on reminding me that I should finish my studies first before having any relationship with a guy even if I care not about it. There were also times that we have a heart to heart talk. Of course, the “bunso nako (my youngest girl)” and “humana ang skwela before ang uyab-uyab (finish your studies first before having a boyfriend)” were also repeated there in our conversation and some additional lines like, “pag-excel sa imong pag-skwela (excel in your studies),” and “paningkamot jud nga makahuman ka (strive hard to finish your studies)” and the like. I am not bad or happy-go-lucky on my elementary years; it is just that, he loved telling me those because it was his frustrations. He wasn’t able to finish any degree because they don’t have enough money and was also abandoned by his parents. He even said that those words of wisdom were not a command but an advice for me to keep.

Grade five was the most unforgettable moment. During that time, my father was already sick. He had Cirrhosis – the liver can’t function very well and has become scarred which caused by alcoholism. We always brought him to the hospital once or twice a month. Even if every day was a struggle for him, he never stopped reminding me those words of wisdom he had for me. He also added, “lang, ayaw og sundog kang papa nga mo-inom og manigarilyo ha (don’t be like or follow papa who loves to drink and smoke)” for it was the reason for his sickness. I was always willing to hear whatever he said ever since. What hurts me the most was that, he’s trying to show to me that he was happy and fine even if it was so obvious that he was hiding the pain inside. And every time I saw him lying in his bed, so pale and thin, I missed the strong and vigorous father I have. I also missed those times that he spent for me. Those smiles and corny jokes he had. Those games we played together. I simply just missed being with my father.

I am aware that he was sick, very sick but what I do not know was that his days were already counted. He had 9 days left starting from the time he went out from the hospital-May 22, 2002. My mother kept that as a secret to most of us except for my second and third eldest brothers. On his ninth day, May 31, I was not in our house because my mother asked me to buy something for him in the city. I was flooded with text messages and phone calls by my siblings then. They wanted me to go home, so I hurriedly went home. When I arrived, a lot of people were inside our house. Our neighbors, my siblings, the whole family was there surrounding my father. My mama and the manghihilot were closer to my father, they kept on encouraging papa to breathe and hold on. When I went near to him crying, his heart beat faster. He looked at me and smiled then suddenly, he closed his eyes and he had no pulse anymore. He stopped breathing. He was gone. He was dead. What was more painful was that, he just waited for me. It was as if, I’m the sign of his last breath.

The pain I felt inside was too heavy. I can’t even find words to describe what I feel. A lot of questions were also popping out on my mind at that time. I couldn’t understand why he left us that early. I couldn’t accept that he will not there by my side for he kept on telling me that he will always be there for me. I can’t take the fact that I will grow up without a father whom I expected the most to guide and protect me. The feeling was like I’ve been betrayed and left hanging in the middle of nowhere.

As his youngest girl was (and still) growing up, I realized that I am doing what my father has always been telling me in my childhood years. Unnoticeably, I was following his advices or words of wisdom to me. In my elementary and high school years and even until now, I don’t have any vices like smoking and drinking. I am also an achiever and someday will finish my college degree with BA Communication Arts in UP Mindanao. Also, I never had a boyfriend. I am NBSB (no boyfriend since birth) and I am kind of proud of that since I am not like the other girls that cannot live without boyfriends. Even though I had suitors, I never entertained them. Maybe because, I am afraid to be left by those like what my father did to me. I am afraid of taking risks. I am afraid of what might happen. I am afraid of the unknown.


I was then 12 years old when my father died. I knew nothing about what life is and could be without him. But, it seems clear to me now and I can possibly answer my questions at that time. I now understand and realized that papa’s words of wisdom was and will a guide for me to grow up independently; to give importance in everything; to be contented and responsible. In a way, it somehow shaped and molded me as I get to know the things around me better. Being left by a father at that young age of mine was not for me to hate things and go myself into waste but a challenge for me on how to handle my life without the one important person. This is life: everything happens for a reason. I am who I am today because of him and unexpectedly, I am living the way he wanted me to be. His youngest girl is now a lady but still treasuring his words that worth keeping.

Started with Shame

By Arianne Nemenzo

All my life, I belong to a female majority household. I have two older sisters who, at that time, happened to be both in college and were living in Davao City. I was 12 years old then. Life is unfair. Nobody listened to me; nobody made me understand things. I was left to witness a scene that enlightened as well as consumed me as I went through my early teen years. My sisters used to tell me that I don’t have the slightest idea what our family is going through. They just said I’ll get to understand everything by the time I fall in love which I didn't understand until that night.

It was a cold evening and the rain had just stopped pouring. I can’t fully remember how it all began or what triggered their hustle. All I can recall is that during that night, I was as if, a movie spectator watching the turn of events as it unraveled before me.

Instead of raindrops falling, I heard the door banging. Instead of nocturnal insects twittering, I heard screams so loud that I became wary. I ran down from my room knowing that it was happening again. However, I was wrong. That time, it was different because it was worse than I had expected or even imagined.

With just a snap, I was already downstairs. I was standing under the arch that serves as our house’s division, separating the living room and the dining room. I was there facing the dining room, which is also connected to the kitchen. I couldn’t fully see what was happening since they were on the other side of the elongated dining table. The screams became louder. Someone cursed; someone was pleading for the other to stop. Someone asked the two to calm down.

In that moment, I doubted my initial impression. Something was definitely wrong. To free myself from doubt, I moved towards the other end of the table and I saw them. There were three figures struggling for the possession of one thing that could decide the end of the story. There they were – my mother, my father and my grandmother (mother’s side), down on their knees at the far right corner of the room. It took me a few seconds to realize that they were actually competing to take hold of a bolo. My tears poured as I thought, someone is going to die tonight.


Ever since I could remember, my parents would fight over my father’s infidelity and drinking problems, my mother’s immortal complaint, and household finances. Their fights, however, were not as violent as this one. It w as different in the sense that I wasn’t able to move or dare to come closer. Usually, even though I would find myself shivering because fear, I could still manage to untangle my parents’ twisted arms as they tried to strangle each other.

I’ve also seen my mother get hit by anything my father was holding. However, I’ve never seen her acting like that. You see, throughout her treasured marriage life, she had fought back but not as willfully and bravely as that night. My mother was very determined to end the very source of her suffering – my father. And there was my father holding her hands that were clasped around the bolo’s handle. She seemed so strong that my father was already half-sitting half-lying on the floor while she knelt towards him. I was proud of her.

My late grandmother, who I fondly called Nanay, was there too trying to stop both of my parents. She was always there for her youngest and only daughter, my mother, ever since she got married. She was protective about my mother but still respected my father as the man of the house. That incident happened few months before my grandmother had a stroke and eventually passed away.


Watching them grappling, I thought "There is only one way to stop them." Thinking that my parents love me very much, their youngest child, I took a kitchen knife and threatened them to kill myself if they wouldn’t stop. I said that as loud as I could but they didn’t budge or bother to ask if it was for real. They weren’t listening. I was invisible. I was scared, angry and humiliated --which was the worst of all.

The three of them continued to struggle so I ran out of the house still holding the knife. My vision was blurry. I was very embarrassed thinking that the persons who always spoiled me with their undivided attention and praises ignored me when I threatened to kill myself. No one really gets everything he or she wants. I was disappointed because they ignored my best performance for that night. Maybe, I am really not good at convincing people because until now my parents haven’t ceased fighting.

I was already out of the house when the rain started to fall again. I went straight to our village’s chapel which is right across our house. It was dark but I managed. Then a woman, our neighbor, saw me. I asked for help since and she told me to stay right outside the chapel while she would tried to talk to my parents. I headed her advice. I've exerted so much energy and I was on the verge of breaking down.

I had had enough of everything! It was the right time to give up, to leave things as they are even if it means acceptance of whatever unacceptable outcome it may bring.

Before I knew it, I was sitting on the wet cemented floor outside the chapel still holding the knife. I was so embarrassed that I swore I would never try to get into their way again. Of course, promises are meant to be broken. Then I saw my mother crying as she ran to hug me. My father did too. They asked me if I was fine as my mother took the kitchen knife from my hands. They told me that they love and that they don’t mean to scare me.


That event happened seven years ago but until now nothing much have changed. They are still living under one roof but sleeping in separate bedrooms. I still hear their screams and curses once in a while. However, no matter how much I tried, I never get used to my parents fighting. I tremble and cry. I still feel fear and that fear extends to having a romantic relationship. I came to realize that when people are in love and married (which is worst), they are obliged to stay in a relationship no matter how wretched and twisted their partners have become. They stick with each other regardless of being miserable. This is the bitter and saddest part of being in a relationship. Love means never giving up on the person you love or used to love even when you know that you might not get out of love alive.

The Best Smile

By Jennevy Cabiza

At a tender age, I already realized that after the beauty and gladness life may offer, it is not a fairy tale which always ends up in happily ever after. Sometimes life simply caves in – everything seems to go wrong. It can take its hardest blow on you at the most unexpected time and place. And just as you come reeling back from one blow, something else hits you on the head.

Two weeks before my 6th birthday, my dad, who’s a mechanical engineer, lost his job; the company where he worked for seven years was forced to close due to bankruptcy. In the eve of my birthday, my mom was rushed to the hospital due to high blood pressure and was near her expected date of giving birth. The doctors said mom should undergo a caesarean delivery due to her condition called Preeclampsia, a disorder that occurs only during pregnancy and postpartum period that both affect the mother and the unborn baby. It is a rapidly progressive condition characterized by high blood pressure and the presence of protein in the urine. To make things more complicated, the doctors found out that the baby’s heart inside her womb was getting weak. Everyone became worried, both for the condition of my mom and her baby. I couldn’t completely understand what the whole hysteria was about. Everybody seems worried and scared. So I began to ask grandma, tita, and dad about what happened, but nobody’s listening and willing to answer my questions. Everyone was busy asking the doctor on what necessary operations should be done. All they could say to me is, “Hilom sa nak ha, magistorya sa mi sa doktor.” Right then, I realized that I am no longer the cream of the crop; that I won’t have any grand birthday celebration; and that baby, on my mom’s womb, before she even comes out into this world already receives a lot of attention than me. Which made me starts to hate the idea of having a sibling.

Being the only child for six years, I received a lot of attention from my parents. I received total care and treatment, but since my mom got pregnant, everything changes. When everyone knows mom was pregnant, people started telling me, “Hala Bem, naa nakay igsoon. Naa nakay kailog sa love sa imong mama ug papa.” or “Dili naka love sa imong mama ug papa kay naa nay baby.” Those words tarnished my young mind. Even though they laugh and said atik lang after they told me those, what they have said already leaves an impression on me that maybe mom and dad will no longer love me if they will have a new born child. Even though mom and dad always told and reassure me that they love me so much, and that I’m still their little princess even though there’s a baby on the way; I still tend to believe those bastards who told me things that made me scared and questioned my parents’ love for me.


I am exposed to many life’s problems, but amidst all those crises my family and I faced, we became closer and more bonded. At six, I have seen my dad struggle to find a new job and how he exerted effort to find sidelines to cope with our daily expenses and hospital bills. I saw how my mom endures pregnancy. At such a young age, I witnessed how difficult it is to get pregnant. Having a history of high blood pressure made my mom suffer even more. I saw how her belly becomes larger and larger as time goes by; and how difficult for her to get up, bend, stand, walk, and sit down because of her very large belly. I witnessed how she suffered headaches, morning sickness, and swollen legs. And because of these things she had undergone through, I began to feel sorry for her. I began to feel bad, for I see her suffering. What’s worse was I cannot do anything to ease her pains; all I can do is to sympathize with her.

I have witnessed how my mother nearly died due to giving birth. At that moment, I began hating the baby in her womb for she made my mom bear such pain. When my mom was rushed to the hospital, I became really scared. The scene of mom fainting was horrifying. That was the first time I saw mom fainted. I remembered my dad driving like a race car driver in a formula one race to bring mom to the hospital. For a second or two, I thought that I was in a movie or telenovela; with all the hysteria and commotions, I began to pray. I pray really hard for the safety of my mom. My mom survived after 12 hours of caesarean operation. Mom was unconscious when she was transferred from the operating room. She was lifeless and exhaustion was written all over her face. I cried when I saw her. I thought I could never see her again, but thank God she’s alive.

Looking at the new born baby, I knew that something was not right with her. She had wrinkles in the thighs, sore-covered skin, and sunken eyes. I was terrified at how small she was, and how many machines she was hooked up to. “So”, I told myself, “this is the baby who nearly killed my mom.” But the longer I looked at her face, the clearer I had seen peace and innocence. The doctors told us that she would have to be given medicine to paralyze her and that she would be placed on a high frequency vent for three days. Watching her small and fragile body, I began to feel really sad for her. I pitied her condition. I thought when I see my sister; I would feel hatred for everything she caused to mom, but surprisingly, it’s not what I felt. An innocent and feeble creature like her doesn’t deserve this condition she is going through, I told myself. Dad, mom, and I left the hospital without the baby. She stayed in the hospital for 6 days for she was still under treatment.

After six days, the baby was finally brought home. She is so delicate and pink. Unable to contain myself from touching her, I reached out to hold her tiny fingers. But as my fingers touched her, she awoke. And smiled! The feeling was unexplainable. As if all of my sorrow and troubles disappears. It was the best smile I have ever seen. I know right then that Faye would be my little sister forever.