A Pack of Light

WHAT MOTHERS KNOW

Episode 9: Her Parents Don’t Know

The phone rang just as Isabelle finished wiping down the kitchen counter. She stared at the screen for a moment, hesitant, before answering.

"Hi, Ma," she said, trying to keep her voice from sounding tired.

"Anak! Kamusta ka na? We haven’t heard from you since last week. Everything alright?"

Her mother’s voice was warm, concerned, and a little too cheerful. Isabelle glanced at the empty sink, at the lonely cup of chamomile tea she hadn't touched.

"I’m okay," she replied, automatically. "Just... busy with school."

"That’s good, that’s good! You’re strong, hija. We’re so proud of you."

Isabelle swallowed. Proud. She wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

Her father chimed in from the background. "And healthy now, right? Thank God! It’s time to enjoy life again, anak. Move on from that sick phase. Maybe even go out and meet someone nice?"

Isabelle chuckled quietly, hollow. "I’m not really thinking about that, Pa."

"Naku! Don’t be so serious all the time," her mother teased. "You’re young, pretty, and healthy. The worst is behind you. Time to be happy again, okay?"

There was a long pause on Isabelle’s end. Then her mother’s voice changed. Softer. Sharper.

"Anak… is there something you’re not telling me?"

Isabelle hesitated. "What do you mean?"

"I know your voice, Isabelle. It’s different. Off. You can lie to the world, but not to me. Talk to me. Please."

Isabelle sat down slowly on the couch, her chest tightening. She closed her eyes.

"Ma… things haven’t been easy. I thought once the cancer left, I’d feel whole again. But I don’t. I feel broken. I’m scared all the time. Like people see right through me."

Her mother’s end was quiet for a moment. Then came a sigh—not disappointed, not impatient, but full of sadness and strength.

"You went through hell, anak. You lost pieces of yourself. No one expects you to put them back overnight."

Isabelle’s lip trembled. She pressed her hand against her mouth.

"It’s not just that, Ma. People… they say things. They expect me to smile, to be grateful I’m alive. But I don’t feel alive. I feel watched. Judged. I feel like a shell of the girl I used to be."

Her mother’s voice broke slightly. "I wish I could hug you now. You don’t have to pretend with me. You don’t need to rush healing. And anyone who makes you feel like you do… doesn’t deserve you."

"Even if that person’s someone who says they care?"

"Especially then," her mother answered. "Love isn’t measured by what they give you. It’s by how safe they make you feel. Do they protect your heart, or do they pressure it?"

Isabelle sat in silence, letting the words soak in. A tear slipped down her cheek.

"Thank you, Ma. I didn’t know I needed to hear that."

"I always know what my child needs," her mother whispered. "Mothers have instinct. And mine is telling me you’re trying to carry too much alone. You don’t have to. Call us, any time. Even if it’s just to cry."

They ended the call with promises to talk again soon. Isabelle sat on the couch, stunned by how much lighter she felt. For the first time in weeks, her chest wasn’t crushed by the weight of isolation.

Then, a knock on the door. She stiffened.

When she opened it, Marco stood on the other side, holding a bouquet of lilies.

"Surprise," he said, smiling. "I picked these up for you. Thought you could use a break."

She blinked. "Marco... I’m really not feeling up to anything today."

His smile faltered. "It’s not even a big thing. I planned something simple. It’ll help. Fresh air, good food. You can’t stay cooped up all the time."

She crossed her arms. "I said I don’t feel like going out."

His lips tightened. "I’ve done everything, Isabelle. I’ve been patient. I bring you gifts, I text you, I check on you, and I barely even get a real smile."

"I didn’t ask for any of that," she said quietly.

He threw the flowers onto the ground. "Of course you didn’t. You never ask for anything because you think the world owes you space and silence after what you went through. But people have their limits."

Her throat clenched. "Then maybe stop pretending you care when you’re only here for the version of me that doesn’t exist anymore."

He stared at her for a moment, his face twisted in disappointment, before turning and storming off.

Isabelle closed the door, slowly. Her eyes drifted to the flowers scattered on her welcome mat, petals torn and crumpled. She picked them up one by one, not because they mattered, but because she didn’t want to leave a mess behind.

Inside, the silence returned—but this time, her mother's voice echoed gently in her mind.

You don’t need to rush healing.

You don’t need to pretend.

Anyone who makes you feel like you do… doesn’t deserve you.

She opened a window, letting in the breeze, her heart beating a little softer than before.

There was still pain. But she wasn’t alone in it. And that made all the difference.