Life in the province was simple but relentless. Each day followed the same routine—wake up before sunrise, fetch water from the nearby well, and prepare for school with whatever little we had. My mother would often wake us with a gentle voice, but behind her words was the urgency of survival. There was no room for laziness, no time to linger in bed.
Despite the struggles, there was a certain beauty to our mornings. The cool breeze, the distant crowing of roosters, and the soft rustling of trees made it seem like the world was at peace—at least for a while. But reality was always waiting, ready to remind us of the life we lived.
At school, I found myself caught between two worlds. One where I was just another student, laughing and learning, and another where I was constantly reminded of my family's poverty. My classmates would talk about the newest toys, the latest trends, and their weekend trips to the city. I listened silently, nodding along, though I knew I'd never experience those things myself.
I still remember the shame I felt when one of my teachers announced a field trip to Manila. Everyone was excited, talking about the places they would visit—the museums, the malls, the fast food chains. For me, the trip wasn't even an option. The fee was beyond what my parents could afford.
"MJ, are you coming?" my classmate asked one day, her eyes bright with anticipation.
I forced a smile. "I don't think so. I have... things to do at home."
I hated lying, but it was easier than explaining the truth—that our family barely had enough money for food, let alone a school trip. The disappointment stung, but I had learned to accept it.
Lunch breaks were another reminder of how different my life was. While my classmates opened their lunch boxes filled with rice, meat, and desserts, I carefully unwrapped my meal—a small portion of rice and a sliver of egg, just enough to ease the hunger but never enough to satisfy it. Some days, when things were particularly tough at home, I wouldn't bring anything at all. I would sit quietly, pretending I wasn't hungry, drinking water to fill the emptiness in my stomach.
One afternoon, my teacher pulled me aside. "MJ, you're a bright student," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "Don't let your situation hold you back. Education is your key."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I wanted to believe her words, but deep down, I knew that education alone couldn't change everything. There were bills to pay, mouths to feed, and responsibilities that weighed heavier than any lesson in class.
At home, my mother noticed my silence. She sat beside me as I stared at my worn-out books. "Anak, what's wrong?" she asked softly.
I hesitated before answering. "Ma, what if I can't finish school?"
She placed a comforting hand on mine. "You will. We'll find a way. We always do."
Her words were meant to reassure me, but I knew better. Hope was a fragile thing in our world. It was something we held onto, even when reality threatened to shatter it.
As I lay in bed that night, I thought about the future—about the dreams I was too afraid to speak aloud, about the life I wanted but couldn't see a way to reach.
Reality was harsh, but deep inside me, there was still a small flicker of hope. And for now, that had to be enough.