This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on April 20, 1999.
I was born with a twin, when my parents were just starting their careers and were not earning enough to support one child, much less two. So they decided to send me to my grandmother in the province until such time that they could afford to raise me themselves. I stayed there for three years before they took me back.
Those three years were perhaps the happiest years of my childhood. I was not aware that I had parents in Manila or that I had a sister. My world revolved around my grandparents and my aunts, whose world revolved around my own in turn. I grew up thinking that my grandmother was my mother. I called her Mama. When my parents decided that I should go back to Manila to start my studies, the separation was very painful. Mama didn’t want to let me go and neither did I want to.
But my parents had my best interests in mind. They wanted me to have the best education possible. They didn’t want me to be inferior to my twin in any way. I had to start living with my real family. The separation was a very painful experience for me. For many months, I cried at night. I would look toward heaven and pray for Mama to come and get me.
And she did come to see me quite often. She would bring us vegetables, chickens and all kinds of foodstuff. She would usually stay for three days, and those three days were like heaven for me. I barely left her side. I wouldn’t even go out to play. I didn’t want her out of my sight. When the time came for her to leave, the pain would begin all over again. I would smell her pillow just so I could pretend that she was still with us. I would have nightmares about her dying and leaving me permanently, and I would wake up crying.
As I grew up, I was able to adjust to my new life. I still missed Mama, but I didn’t cry anymore. Still in times of trouble, I ran to her. I used to visit her regularly, but my visits became less frequent when I was in college. After I got married, I would still visit her during Holy Week but I didn’t stay long. I was too busy.
In March 1996, I decided to visit her again on Holy Wednesday, and planned a surprise for her. I wanted to return a little of the goodness she had showered on me all my life. When I entered the house her back was turned to me. I hugged her, and she was so surprised when she realized it was me. Then she began to cry. I couldn’t understand why. She kept on repeating, ”Anak ko.” ”Anak ko.” I just held her. She told me she missed me so much. I laughed and kissed her. I knew I had been away for too long this time. I told her I was going to do something that would make her happy. I suggested that we go to the market and then to the grocery. There I paid for whatever we bought. She was so happy (she was always easy to please). I cooked kare-kare for her and it turned out to be a disaster.
I was so embarrassed because she was such a great cook. She never said a word and even pretended to like it. My husband drove her around town and brought her to places she wanted to go. (This was a big treat for her since she couldn’t move around that much due to old age and arthritis.) We stayed up late, making small talk and drinking her delicious kapeng barako. The next morning, I got up early so I could spend more time with her before leaving after lunch. She surprised me by cooking my favorite, beef steak. Everything was just perfect.
As we drove away from her house, I looked back and saw that she was still there on the porch looking at us. She looked old and frail. I waved at her, and then the thought occurred to me that it could be the last time I would see her. I shook off the dreadful thought and let the sadness of goodbye engulf me.
Four months later, my twin sister came to our house without calling in advance. I was pleasantly surprised. She held my hand and took a deep breath, and then she told me: Mama had been murdered. I let out a scream of pure agony. I understood why my last visit seemed perfect. It was God’s way of letting us say goodbye. When I arrived at her house, I was still half-expecting Mama to welcome me. I didn’t want to believe she was dead. Instead, one by one my relatives embraced me. I requested that the coffin be opened. I held her in my arms and caressed her face. Her gentle face bore numerous wounds. Her throat had been slit open, and she had bled to death. Thinking of her last agonizing moments was torture for me. I could imagine her crying out for help as she crawled from her bed to the front door. I would have given anything to be there to protect her.
The suspect was immediately arrested. He was known to us all. He and his family had benefited tremendously from my grandmother’s generosity. His mother lived most of her life working for our family. They were caretakers of our land. She was their ninang sa kasal. She helped him go abroad and work. She helped send his daughter to school. It was a senseless and cruel death, another tragic outcome of society’s dreaded menace: drug addiction. It took almost two and a half years, but now I am almost completely healed of my pain and bitterness, thanks to my loving family and my faith in God. I still miss Mama. I still think of her and sometimes tears just flow from my eyes. I cry for the happy times that are lost forever.
But I look forward to the day when her memory will bring smiles instead of tears. Friends have asked me if my healing would be complete if the man who did it would be put to death. At first, I said, ”Yes, he deserves it.” Later after some deep reflection, I realized that I did not want the man to die. I knew him since I was a child and I knew that there’s still some goodness left in him. I didn’t want his wife to watch him being killed. I didn’t want his daughter to read about how the whole nation rejoiced at her father’s death. No, that was not what I wanted.
I wanted him to be sorry for what he did and pay for it by being sentenced to a life of hard work without life’s simplest luxuries. I wanted him to go down on his knees and pray for Mama’s soul. I wanted him to cry and mourn for the sweet tomorrows with his wife and little girl that would never be. I wanted him to live with his crime and see the pain in Mama’s eyes and hear her screams every time he goes to sleep. I wanted him to grieve for the rest of his whole life. But most of all, I wanted him to change and dedicate his life to doing the good things Mama would have done had she lived longer. And when he is old and weak and tired, I would be willing to let him go free. Had I been there when he attacked Mama, I would have killed him with my bare hands. I would have willingly shot or stabbed him to save Mama. But now his death would be meaningless. It would bear no fruit, except more pain and bitterness. So why would I want to see him die?
Healing takes time. It starts with forgiveness and acceptance. My world stopped for a while, but life had to go on. I had to keep on walking and leave the tears at Mama’s grave. I had to focus on the tomorrows instead of the yesterdays. If God could bear the death of His Son, then I should be able to let go of Mama. Jesus came to save sinners like you and me. The least I can do is forgive this man. With capital punishment, forgiveness loses its meaning and there are no second chances. What would the future hold if there are no beginnings?
