The Truth Between Our Lies

The Hands That Held Me

All the things that happened when I was a child came back to my mind—the way my granny held me and sang lullabies, rocking me to sleep even though I was already seven years old. She still treated me like a baby. All the things we used to do were gone. They moved on and forgot me. It hurt so much that the one who used to hold me every night didn’t want me back anymore.

For me, life worsened when I got there because I felt like no one loved me. I felt completely alone. I was dying inside, questioning the Creator—why did He bring me into this world if I would only suffer? To be honest, my experiences in the past were the worst. All the hurt and physical abuse I went through—I endured them by reminding myself that no one could save me from that dark moment except myself.

I became rebellious when I stayed at my father’s place. I kept partying with friends, drinking, and I became so lost. I didn’t study, and I was a teenager with no direction.

There was a time when I ran away from our house for a week because I felt so tired of my father’s routine. He kept drinking liquor and made me take care of his children with his mistress. I was so sick of it. Out of frustration, I left my siblings alone at home, and my father got very mad at me. He cursed me, saying I was a useless child who would never be successful in life. We fought so badly—he punched and kicked me in the face and all over my body. We hurt each other to the point that he almost killed me, and I fought back. My grandparents didn’t care about what was happening anymore, and that hurt me more than the physical pain I felt.

After that incident, my father talked to my mom and said he would send me back because I was a black sheep and he couldn’t handle or control me anymore.

The next day, he packed our things and decided to bring me back to my mom.

On our way home, while riding a bus, there was an accident. The glass on our side cracked because someone threw a big stone. My father covered me that night. He did everything to make sure I was safe. He kept asking me, “Are you alright?” That day, I found myself wondering—did he care for me too? Was that real? Did he love me as his child? And then a memory came back to me—I realized that he did care. There was a time when he secretly gave me money for school and told me not to tell Auntie Juliet, his mistress.

When we reached Manila, we first went to my father’s relatives in Valenzuela, and he introduced me to them. I also felt sad for my father because I knew he was a good man—it was just that his mistress wasn’t. She influenced him not to take care of me. It made me sad because it wasn’t entirely his fault that he and my mom separated. He was also a victim of circumstances. I know he loved my mom so much, but things just happened.

I felt sorry for him. I knew I was too much to handle, and maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop himself from hurting me.

That night, we talked to each other. He told me he was sorry because he couldn’t give me a complete family. He apologized for the life I had. I told him that someday, when I have my own family, I won’t follow my mom’s footsteps. I promised him that I would be there for my children no matter what. And I also promised that despite being called a “prodigal child,” I would graduate and prove to everyone that I am different from what they think.