Terms and Conditions

Chapter 2 — Ten Names

Clara Reyes’s life was measured not in hours or minutes, but in names. Ten names, each pulling her in a different direction, each carrying a piece of her heart—and her wallet.

She sat on the edge of her narrow bed in the shared apartment, laptop balanced on her knees, phone in hand, spreadsheet open. The familiar list glared at her:

1. Kuya Miguel – sick with a heart condition and diabetes

2. Ate Lina – struggling sister with 2 children without father

3. Andrea – the youngest, final year of college

4. Rica – older sister who just went to Singapore to work as a Nurse

5. Paolo – a sibling with tuberculosis and scoliosis

6. Mama – mother who reminds her of everything they needed in the Philippines

7. Uncle Tomas – minor financial needs

8. Tito Ben – minor financial needs

9. Aunt Rosa – minor financial needs

10. Cousin Leo – occasional emergencies, small debts

Ten names. Ten debts. Ten lives she carried from afar.

Kuya Miguel. Appointments twice a week, medicine more expensive than her daily commute in Switzerland. CHF 150 this week for his meds. Done.

Ate Lina. Struggling to keep the small sari-sari store afloat back home. Always calling for minor emergencies. Last week, water pipes broke in her apartment. CHF 80 sent. This week, school fees for her children. Clara typed quickly, counting carefully.

Andrea. The youngest sibling, finishing college, trying to stay afloat without pressure. Tuition due next month, CHF 400. Clara loved Andrea fiercely, but the responsibility made her chest tight.

Nurse Rica. Older sister, now working abroad in Singapore. She had been Clara’s unofficial safety net when she first arrived in Canada, then Switzerland, helping with remittances, housing, and healthcare. Now Rica was independent. Clara felt bittersweet relief — one less mouth to feed, one less hand to guide.

Paolo. A sibling that has tubercolosis, forced to stop work temporarily. Hospital visits, medicines, emotional support — he was fragile, but stubborn. CHF 200 sent for his care. Clara pictured him sleeping more than he worked, worrying that the isolation and cough had made him weak.

Mama. Aging, slow to adapt, stubborn about asking for help. Clara had taken the burden herself. Insurance, check-ups, even small comforts — all tracked carefully, all budgeted in her mental ledger.

Uncle Tomas. Retired, living alone, occasionally asks for help with utilities. CHF 30 this week. Clara’s heart tightened every time she had to prioritize him.

Tito Ben. Estranged cousin, small debts, emergency hospital bills last month. CHF 50. She couldn’t ignore him.

Aunt Rosa. Elderly, frail, living in a distant province, relying on her niece for small comforts — food packages, medicine. CHF 40.

Cousin Leo. A teenage cousin, still learning to manage life, sometimes asks for money to cover small emergencies. CHF 20. Clara noted it quietly, sighing.

Ten names. Ten lives, each tethered to hers by love, responsibility, and the unspoken debt of care.

The phone pinged. A w******p message from Mama:

Clara, how is Paolo’s medicine today? And Andrea’s assignment? Ate Lina said she'd need money for the market.

Clara typed quickly: All set. CHF 200 to Paolo, CHF 400 to Andrea, CHF 80 for Ate Lina. I’ll send the receipts.

She leaned back, rubbing her temples. Switzerland was supposed to be a land of opportunity, a place where she could breathe and live independently. Instead, it felt like a constant balancing act, every step measured, every coin accounted for.

Her fast-food supervisor job at McDonald’s paid well enough to survive and remit, but the work was monotonous, exhausting, and isolating. She remembered her first day in Zürich — wide-eyed, awe-struck by the clean streets, the organized trams, the snow-capped Alps in the distance. She had imagined a life of small luxuries, quiet cafés, and weekend hikes. She hadn’t imagined the constant phone calls, the math of remittances, the heavy responsibility pressing down on her shoulders.

Clara closed her laptop, stood, and stretched. Her roommate, a fellow OFW from the Philippines, poked her head in.

“Clara, dinner?”

Shaking her head, Clara replied, “Not hungry. I have to finish these transfers. Paolo’s meds, Andrea’s tuition, Kuya Miguel…” Her voice trailed off.

Her roommate sighed. “You know, you can’t carry everyone forever.”

“I have to. Someone has to.” Her voice was sharp but not unkind.

She returned to her spreadsheet, mentally adding up: CHF 150 for Kuya, CHF 80 for Ate Lina, CHF 400 for Andrea, CHF 200 for Paolo, CHF 30 for Uncle Tomas, CHF 50 for Tito Ben, CHF 40 for Aunt Rosa, CHF 20 for Cousin Leo. Total: CHF 970 this week.

And that was only the major items. Small emergencies, transport, groceries for Mama, unexpected fees — the number was always higher.

By late evening, Clara walked to the corner store to pick up essentials. Snow crunched under her boots, and the cold air burned her cheeks. At the checkout, she held the door for a young mother struggling with a stroller and groceries. The woman thanked her with a weary smile. Clara nodded and stepped out, the snow already gathering softly on her coat.

She paused on the sidewalk and imagined—just for a heartbeat—a life measured not in remittances but in quiet moments: a warm café, a book in her hands, a soft lamp, a window watching snow fall. No calls, no debts, no calculations. Just her.

The fantasy vanished quickly. Paolo’s coughing would start tonight. Andrea needed tuition. Kuya Miguel had his doctor’s appointment. And Mama… Mama would call again, asking about something small, something essential. Someone had to do it. And that someone was her.

At the same time, someone else happened to be in the same space. On the opposite sidewalk, an older man paused briefly as he noticed Clara helping a child with a small sled. Nothing deliberate, nothing that lingered. Just a simple acknowledgment of warmth and care. Clara continued on her path, absorbed in her own thoughts, unaware of the quiet impression she had made.

Switzerland remained exact, as always. But Clara, three years into this foreign life, was learning to navigate its coldness with precision, heart, and an unspoken resilience.

And for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself a fleeting thought of a life just for herself—measured not in coins, but in moments.