The Things We Don’t Tell Mothers
By the time Sofia turned twenty-six, she already knew how to survive on very little. Very little sleep. Very little money. Very little hope. She lived in a cramped apartment in Sampaloc with peeling walls and a leaking ceiling she stopped complaining about months ago because the landlord always answered the same way: “Pwede pa naman.” Everything in her life felt “pwede pa naman.” Her job at a small review center paid barely enough to cover rent and her mother’s maintenance medicine back home in Batangas. Every cutoff felt like trying to divide water with bare hands. No matter how carefully she budgeted, something was always missing. Still, every Sunday night, she called her mother pretending life in Manila was going well. “O, anak? Kumakain ka ba nang tama?” “Opo.” “Napapahinga ka?” “Opo.” “Masaya ka naman?” That question always hurt the most. Because Sofia became good at lying to her mother. “Masyado.” The truth was she had not genuinely felt okay in a very long time. Not after her father died. Not after becoming the family’s breadwinner overnight. Not after realizing adulthood was mostly just exhaustion wearing decent clothes. Sometimes, during her commute home, Sofia would imagine disappearing for one whole week just to see if anyone would notice she was tired. Then she would immediately feel guilty afterward. Because tired people were not allowed to rest when other people depended on them. Especially panganay daughters. Especially Filipino daughters. One Wednesday evening, after another twelve-hour workday, Sofia boarded a nearly empty jeepney along España carrying three things: her bag, her umbrella, and the quiet desire to cry for absolutely no reason. Rainwater flooded the streets outside while exhausted strangers stared blankly ahead. That was when the jeepney suddenly stopped. The driver cursed loudly. “Sira na naman!” Passengers groaned collectively. Some got off immediately despite the heavy rain. Sofia stayed seated because honestly, she no longer had energy left for inconvenience. Then someone beside her spoke. “Parang gusto mo nang sumuko.” She looked up. The guy beside her looked around her age. Wet hair. Long sleeves rolled unevenly. Face too tired to flirt properly. “Ha?” He nodded toward the expression on her face. “Sorry. Mukha ka kasing galit sa buong mundo.” Normally, Sofia hated strangers talking to her. But exhaustion makes people softer sometimes. She laughed quietly despite herself. “Hindi sa mundo,” she muttered. “Sa buhay lang.” The guy smiled like he understood that answer more than he should. “Ako rin.” That should have been the end of it. Just two exhausted strangers trapped inside a broken jeepney while Manila drowned outside. But the rain became heavier. Then traffic stopped completely. Then somehow they started talking. His name was Marco. Twenty-eight. Former architecture student. Currently working night shifts at a printing shop after dropping out years ago when his father suffered a stroke. “Hindi na ako nakabalik after,” he admitted casually, like he already rehearsed the disappointment enough times to make it sound normal. Sofia understood that tone immediately. The tone people use when talking about dreams they buried alive. By the time the rain softened, they had already talked about things strangers normally do not discuss. Parents getting older. Hospital bills. The guilt of wanting more from life when your family already sacrificed everything for you. It felt strange. Comforting, even. Because for the first time in months, Sofia did not feel dramatic for being tired. Someone finally understood exhaustion without needing explanation. After that night, she kept seeing him accidentally. Sometimes outside the convenience store near her apartment. Sometimes buying instant coffee before work. Sometimes asleep inside the same jeepney after night shifts. Eventually, accidental became intentional. They started eating lugaw together after work because both were too broke for proper restaurants. Marco started walking her home whenever his shift ended early. Sofia started bringing extra sandwiches because Marco always lied about already eating. And slowly, life became less heavy. Not easier. Just less lonely. One night, months later, while sitting on the rooftop of Sofia’s apartment building sharing cheap beer and fishballs from downstairs, Marco suddenly asked: “Anong dream mo dati?” Sofia laughed softly. “Dati?” “Before survival mode.” That question sat heavily between them. Because nobody asks struggling people about dreams anymore. Only responsibilities. Only bills. Only deadlines. Only practical things. Sofia stared at the city lights for a long time before answering. “Gusto ko magsulat.” Marco looked at her carefully. “Bakit hindi mo ginagawa?” She smiled without humor. “Kasi may mas importanteng bayaran kaysa pangarap.” Marco stayed quiet for a moment. Then softly he said: “Ang lungkot naman kung hanggang dun nalang tayo habang buhay.” Something inside Sofia almost broke hearing that. Because deep down, she had already accepted that maybe this was all life would ever become: surviving, sending money home, pretending not to be tired. And maybe that was why she fell in love with him slowly. Not because Marco saved her. But because he reminded her she was still a person outside responsibility. Then life happened again. Because it always does. Sofia’s mother got hospitalized after a mild stroke. Hospital bills piled up. Sofia started accepting tutorial jobs until 1AM. Marco picked up double shifts. Slowly, exhaustion returned between them like a third person in the relationship. Calls became shorter. Dates disappeared. Replies became delayed not from lack of love, but lack of energy. Until one night, after weeks of barely seeing each other, Sofia finally snapped. “I’m tired, Marco.” He looked at her quietly inside the fluorescent light of a 24-hour karinderya. “I know.” “No,” she whispered, eyes burning. “I mean pagod na akong maging matatag para sa lahat.” That was the first time she cried in front of him. Not pretty crying. The ugly kind. The years-worth kind. Marco moved beside her immediately without saying anything. And somehow that hurt more. Because he understood too well. He held her hand tightly while she cried against his shoulder beside untouched plates of tapsilog and cold coffee. Then softly, almost painfully, he whispered: “Hindi mo kailangan maging strong palagi.” Sofia cried harder after that. Because sometimes the kindest thing another person can do is finally give you permission to be tired.