After Israel's death, something changed in me. Life, which had already been difficult, now felt heavier—like I was carrying a weight that no one else could see. But in our family, grief was a quiet thing, tucked away behind responsibilities and the endless need to survive. There was no time to dwell on sadness when there were mouths to feed and bills to pay.
My father worked even harder, taking on more jobs than his body could handle. My mother, though quieter than before, carried on with her daily routines—cooking, washing, and making sure we had something, even if it was barely enough. I found myself stepping up more, trying to lighten their burden in whatever way I could.
School became both an escape and a reminder of how different I was from my classmates. They still laughed freely, talked about their favorite TV shows, and planned for their futures with such certainty. Meanwhile, I sat in silence, wondering how I could help my family without falling behind in my studies.
One day, our teacher announced a group project that required materials—things like colored paper, markers, and other supplies I couldn't afford. My heart sank as my classmates excitedly discussed their plans. I considered skipping school that day, avoiding the embarrassment of showing up empty-handed.
But when I told my mother about it, she simply nodded and disappeared into the small wooden cabinet where she kept our few belongings. Moments later, she returned with a crumpled five-peso coin in her hand.
"Here," she said, pressing it into my palm. "Buy what you need."
I looked at the coin, feeling guilt gnawing at me. "But Ma, this is for food."
She smiled faintly, her tired eyes softening. "Your education is important, anak. We'll manage."
I didn't know how she did it—how she always made sacrifices without hesitation. I promised myself that one day, I would repay her for everything.
The next day, I walked into class with a single sheet of colored paper and a borrowed marker. My groupmates glanced at my modest contribution but didn't say anything. I worked harder than ever on that project, determined to prove that I could still contribute, even if I didn't have much.
That was how life worked for us. We found ways to survive, even when it seemed impossible. We learned to stretch every peso, to find value in the smallest things, and to keep moving forward, no matter what.
But survival wasn't just about money; it was also about strength—mental, emotional, and physical. And I was learning that the hardest battles were the ones fought in silence.
At night, I lay awake, thinking about the future. I knew education was my only way out, but doubts crept into my mind. Would I really make it? Or was I simply chasing an impossible dream?
As the days turned into weeks, I kept pushing forward, holding onto the lessons my family had taught me—resilience, sacrifice, and the unwavering belief that no matter how hard life got, we would find a way to survive.
Even if it meant struggling a little longer.