He had donated his blood to enable me to receive an education. However, I was unable to pay him any money on the day he came to me for a small favor. With tears in his eyes and a wounded heart, he quietly departed.
My mother’s best friend, not my real father, was the man who reared me. A menial laborer, residing in a small room close to the river. Despite his lack of resources, he volunteered to care for me after my mother died. He worked tirelessly over my whole academic career, taking on debt to ensure that I would never be in need.
I recall needing money for school one evening. I didn’t want to talk to him about it. Nevertheless, he approached me and gave me a little bundle of crumpled dollars that still had a disinfectant odor.
He whispered, “Your father just gave his blood.” “This is for you, my son.”
I sobbed for a long time that night. For a child who isn’t even theirs, who would repeatedly donate their blood?
He sobbed the day I was admitted to the university.
— He told me, “You will go far, but I no longer have the strength to follow.” Just keep in mind your origins.
Years passed. I put in a lot of effort, was successful, and moved up the ladder. Living modestly beside the river, he consistently declined my assistance and occasionally sent me a few pennies “to encourage you, my son.”
After I became a director, my monthly salary surpassed one hundred thousand pesos. He hesitated to move close to me, even though I wanted him to. He remarked, “I’m used to my simple life.”
He paid me a visit one day. His voice was shaking, his hair was nearly white, and he was thin.
— “My son… According to the doctor, I require surgery. It costs a lot. Would you please lend me a little?
I looked down. The memories all flooded back. Nevertheless, I replied: “No.” I am unable to.
He walked away silently and slowly. However, he was unaware of the real reason I declined.
“Don’t go, father!” I yelled after him.
He paused, paused for a second, then lowered his gaze and remained silent. It felt as though time had stopped. In turn, I fell silent and allowed my memories to play like a vintage movie. I thought of his work-worn hands and the rough fingers that had held mine so many times.
I recalled his restless evenings, when he kept watch over me as I studied under a lamp’s flickering light. I recalled those worried and proud faces, that odd combination of vulnerability and strength that had molded my early years.
I then held his hand gently and whispered, “I owe you nothing, father,” in a shaky but determined voice. It’s my time now. Until the day you die, I will look after you.
His eyes gleamed with suppressed tears as he gazed at me, and a shaky smile spread across his weary face. For the first time, I believed I saw the calm of knowing he was no longer alone in his eyes rather than terror of what lay ahead.
He has been living with us ever since. By the fireplace, stories and laughter fill the home. Unknowingly imparting the courage and kindness that he taught me, he shares his recollections with the kids. When we stroll beside the river on certain evenings, I can see the same spark in his eyes that he had when he was waiting for me at the school gate all those years ago.
And each time I look into that eyes, I am reminded that the greatest miracle is not blood exchanged but love chosen—love that gives without expecting anything in return and that endures despite adversity to be engraved in the heart forever.
