I will never forget that day. The day we returned to the Philippines full of joy… only to be confronted with a truth that nearly destroyed our family.

I sent forty thousand pesos monthly.

Mela sent anywhere between twenty-five to fifty thousand pesos.

And Miggy—even when he was still a student—never failed to contribute.

In our minds…

our mother’s life must have already improved.

Maybe she had her own house.

Maybe she had a refrigerator, a television, and a proper bed.

Maybe she no longer had to sell vegetables in the market all day.

That was what we believed.

As we rode in the taxi toward the address that Uncle Rudy told us was where Mother lived, the car was filled with laughter.

“Kuya,” Mela said while dragging her suitcase, “I’m sure Mom will cry when she sees us.”

Miggy laughed.

“She might not even recognize us anymore. Maybe she’s already living like a rich woman.”

I smiled as I looked out the window.

In five years…

we must have sent more than three million pesos already.

To us, that was more than enough to make sure our mother would never suffer again.

But when the taxi turned into a narrow alley at the edge of the city…

my forehead slowly creased with confusion.

This was not the place I expected.

The road was muddy.