Dearest Maria Ligaya,
I do not know where to start. Perhaps because we began close, yet ended like strangers. I am not one to judge—though they do. I am not biased—yet I chose to walk away, not to fight, not to quarrel, but to avoid hurting each other further.
When I sensed a quarrel was coming, I blocked you—not out of hatred, but to protect you. And yet, I realized the more I tried to protect you, the less you did the same for me. It felt like we were rowing a boat together, but in opposite directions. The wind could not be controlled, but the sail could—and you never adjusted yours. You were focused on the wind, not the sail.
At first, I avoided testing the waters. But then I saw the alligator swimming. I learned to test the waters, survive the tides, rise and fall with the waves. Calm moments came, then storms. Like the waves rushing to meet the shore, we never met halfway. And yet, I am grateful—for the buoyancy, for the warnings, for staying afloat even when I almost drowned.
Perhaps you felt like a hero, speaking unfiltered words to me and even toward my family. I will never forgive you for that. But I chose to forgive—not because I am weak, or because I accept defeat, but because I wanted to act with honesty and maturity.
I wanted to speak, to confront, but I chose to protect your feelings. I did not want to hurt you. I know myself—I can be tactless, impulsive. Even if we were at war, I still chose restraint.
You hurt my feelings. You hurt my family. You never paused to assess, to gather information, to verify the facts. You judged without proof. You believed your son over us, unquestioningly. Of course, he is your son, your flesh and blood. And who are we? Just your servants? No. We are your family, yet you treated us as lesser. Spoiled us with your padala, your reject clothes, buy-one-take-one items—but in return, you deceived us.
With your ambition to go abroad, who helped you? My mother. Who sent you there? My father. Did you show gratitude? None. Nada. You did not owe us repayment. We sent you to the airport because we loved you, not because of obligation.
Let me take you down memory lane: she was my aunt. My cousin, her son. And her gold-digging girlfriend entered the picture, claiming power and status. My cousin and I were like siblings, knitted close from birth, but that connection fractured because of her.
When her girlfriend arrived, I felt a bad aura. I asked questions—not to interrogate, but to understand. And yet, I was painted as controlling. Yes, the house belonged to my uncle legally, but my aunt paid for it. All my mother’s life, she stayed behind to care for family while my aunt went abroad and my uncle worked in the provinces. My mother carried burdens silently.
When Grandma fell ill, my family’s absence left chaos in its wake. I took care of her, and my mother’s back deteriorated from the weight and strain. While we suffered, you were comfortably in your mortgaged apartment in North Carolina. Edi sana all.
What is your point, Maria Ligaya? To belittle us? At least my family is grounded in love and kindness, unlike yours, shaped by narcissism. Your son reflected that, becoming just like them.
I may forgive much, but I will never forgive you for hurting my mother. She cared for you, sacrificed for you, and you repaid her with cruelty. Let your son take care of you now—karma and God will handle the rest. God saw me at my lowest, helpless. I hope He forgives you for what you did to us. Inhumane, indeed.
We chose to walk away. To move forward without your ghost haunting us. We felt like shadows in your presence. You even fractured my bond with my cousin because of your entitlement. Be grateful—I do not seek revenge. God will do justice.
That is all.
—Me
