When I got accepted into college, I had nothing but an admissions letter and a fragile dream of escaping poverty. Our life had always been hard—so hard that whenever we had a small piece of meat on the table, the whole neighborhood knew we were celebrating something.
My mother died when I was just ten, and my biological father had disappeared long before that. The man who stepped in to raise me wasn’t related to me by blood—he was my mother’s best friend, a tricycle driver who lived in a cramped ten-square-meter room by the river.
After her death, he didn’t hesitate. Despite his own poverty, he took me in and became my guardian. Through my years of schooling, he worked day and night, sometimes borrowing money just so I wouldn’t be forced to stop studying.
I still remember one night in high school when I needed to pay an extra fee but was too embarrassed to ask. He came home late, handed me a few crumpled bills that smelled faintly of disinfectant, and said quietly, “Your father donated blood today. They gave me a small reward. Take it, son.”
I couldn’t stop my tears that night. Who else would willingly sell their own blood—again and again—just to give a child, not even his own, a chance to stay in school? That secret was ours alone, and it became the foundation of my gratitude for the rest of my life.
When I was accepted into a prestigious university in Manila, he hugged me so tightly I could feel his heart pounding. “You’re strong, son,” he told me, his voice trembling. “Study hard. I might not be able to help forever, but you can get out of this life. Promise me that.”
During college, I juggled part-time jobs—tutoring, waiting tables, anything that paid. Still, he sent me a few hundred pesos every month. I begged him to stop, but he always said the same thing: “It’s my money, and it’s your right to have it.”
When I finally graduated, my first salary was ₱15,000. I immediately sent him ₱5,000 to thank him. A week later, it came back in an envelope with a note that said, “Save it. You’ll need it more than I do. I’m old—I don’t need much.”
Years passed. I climbed my way up, from entry-level to director. My income reached ₱100,000 a month. I offered to bring him to live with me in the city, but he declined. “I’m used to my little room,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.” Knowing how stubborn he was, I let him be.
Then one day, he appeared at my door. He was frail, sun-darkened, and trembling. He sat quietly on the edge of the sofa and said, “Son… my eyesight’s getting worse. My hands shake. The doctor says I need surgery—it’ll cost ₱60,000. I don’t know who else to ask.”
For a moment, I just stared at him. I remembered the countless nights he came home late after driving his tricycle just to make sure I had my school supplies. I remembered how he used to wait for me to come home from evening classes, always falling asleep in the chair by the door. I remembered the smell of disinfectant on those bills—the ones paid for with his own blood.
Then I said softly, “I can’t. I won’t give you a single cent.”
He didn’t speak. His shoulders sagged, and his lips quivered as he nodded slowly. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “You don’t owe me anything.”
He stood up to leave, his steps unsteady. But before he could reach the door, I got down on my knees and grabbed his hand. Tears filled my eyes as I said, “Dad, how could there be a debt between us? You gave me everything. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
For the first time in years, he cried—openly, without holding back. I held him tightly, and we wept together, the distance between father and son disappearing completely.
From that day on, he lived with us. My wife welcomed him with warmth, treating him as her own father. Though old, he still helped around the house in small ways—watering the plants, fixing things, or playing with our children. We often traveled together, creating new memories to fill the spaces where hardship once lived.
People sometimes ask me, “Why are you so devoted to your adoptive father when he couldn’t give you much before?”
I always answer the same way: “He paid for my education with his blood and his youth. He may not share my blood, but he is my father in every way that matters.”
Some debts can never be measured in money. But love, gratitude, and time—that’s how I repay him, every single day.