The Performance of the Good Son

It is 11:50 PM. In ten minutes, April 10th will officially end, and with it, my mother’s birthday. I am back in my room in Quezon City, the smell of motorcycle engine oil still clinging to my skin and the familiar, rhythmic creak of the ceiling fan welcoming me back into the dark.

Yesterday was Araw ng Kagitingan—the Day of Valor. While the rest of the country is supposedly celebrating courage and heroism, I spent the day practicing my most convincing lie in the bathroom mirror of my apartment in Quezon City. And today, the real battle happened on the winding roads to Rizal.

The road to the NHA relocation site in Montalban is a long, dusty stretch of broken promises. I rode my motorcycle out there today, the engine sputtering with the same exhaustion that has lived in my bones since 2019. Back in my days as an IT Project Manager, I would have zipped through this traffic with the arrogance of a man who owned the sky. I was the "cool guy" from the public schools who finally made it out of the Quezon City slums. But today, as I climbed the hills toward my parents' small, government-issued house, I felt like a thief returning to the scene of a crime. My stomach was a hollow cavern, reminding me that I haven't had a proper meal in days, and the "haze" in my head—the one I haven't been able to medicate since 2020—was so thick I could barely see the road through the tears I refused to let fall.

I stopped at a bakery in San Mateo, the smell of sugar and yeast mocking the absolute zero in my bank account. I stood there for twenty minutes, staring at a simple chocolate dedication cake, frantically doing the math in my head. If I bought the cake for my mother’s birthday, I wouldn’t have enough gas to get back to my rented room in the slums. I wouldn't even have enough for a single egg to eat tomorrow. I stood there, a thirty-something man who used to manage million-dollar budgets, and I realized I couldn't even afford to buy my mother the sweetness she deserves. I walked back to my motorcycle empty-handed, my chest tight with a shame so acidic it felt like it was dissolving my ribs. I am the eldest son, the dropout who was supposed to be the hero, yet I arrived at her door with nothing but the dust of the road on my clothes.

The birthday lunch was a masterclass in slow-motion psychological torture. My mother, who still spends her weary days volunteering at the barangay hall, had cooked pancit for my "long life"—a bitter irony for someone who has been praying for the clock to stop since 2019.

My father, a retired security guard whose hands are permanently curved from years of gripping a shotgun he never owned, looked at me with a pride that felt like a physical weight. While my older sister sent photos of her life as a nurse in Florida and my younger brother bragged about his caregiver salary in Japan via the family group chat, I sat there and lied.

"How’s the office, anak?" my father asked, his eyes full of a pride I haven't earned. "The traffic in the Metro must be exhausting."

"It’s okay, 'Pa," I lied, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat. "The new project is demanding, but the management is happy with my performance. Just a lot of overtime lately."

I invented meetings, I complained about "corporate deadlines," and I described an office environment I haven't stepped foot in since I was laid off in 2022. I wore the mask of the successful son so tightly that I could feel my soul suffocating underneath it, all while my stomach screamed in protest from not having a real meal in forty-eight hours.

I couldn't even buy her a gift. I told her it was "delayed in shipping," another lie to add to the pile. I felt like a ghost haunting my own family’s dinner table—a Kulaspiro acting foolishly to protect them from the truth of my depression.

Being unemployed is a shame that eats you quietly. But being a liar—pretending you are "okay" to protect the people who love you—is a weight that breaks your bones. I sat in my childhood bedroom for a few minutes after lunch, surrounded by old trophies and books from a time when my potential was still a promise. Now, I’m just a 30-something who can't even buy his mother a birthday cake.

I left as the sun started to dip, making excuses about a "busy morning tomorrow."

As I was leaving, my mom walked me to my motorcycle. She didn’t ask about the cake or the gift. She just handed me a plastic container of leftovers and tucked a small, folded piece of paper into my jacket pocket.

I opened it when I got back to QC, just a few minutes ago. It said: "Kahit anong mangyari, nandito lang kami. Magpahinga ka, anak. Mahal ka namin." (No matter what happens, we are just here. Rest, my son. We love you.)

I’m sitting here at 11:55 PM, and I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she sees the cracks in the mask, the paleness of the Kulaspiro, and the exhaustion of the lie. The haze is still here, and the bank account is still empty, but that little note is sitting on my desk next to my laptop.

I didn't give her a gift today. But maybe, just maybe, the fact that I showed up—that I fought the urge to disappear and instead chose to be there, even as a lie—is a small kind of valor.

The day is almost over. I’m still here. And for tonight, that’s the only truth that matters.

Have you ever had to hide your struggles just to keep the people you love smiling? How do you handle the silence when the celebration is over?

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The Long Ride to Nowhere

 I left my room in Quezon City at 5:00 AM, before the Metro could fully wake up and start demanding things from me. I thought that if I put enough distance between myself and that creaky ceiling fan, maybe the "haze" would stay behind in the city smog. I took the bike, gassed up with the last few hundred pesos I should have probably saved for groceries, and rode toward the mountains of Tanay.

I ended up here, at Moolk Creamery Farm.

They tell you that nature is a healer. They say the fresh air of Rizal is the antidote to the suffocating heat of the city. But as I sit here on a cold stone bench, looking out at the dried grass and the unlit string lights, I realize that changing your zip code doesn't change your brain. I’m just a depressed, unemployed man in a different setting. Instead of feeling small in a crowd of office workers, I now feel small against the vast, indifferent silence of the hills.

The sky is a mocking, perfect blue. In the distance, the wind turbines of Pililla are spinning—slow, rhythmic, and tireless. They have a purpose. They are generating power for a world that’s moving forward. And here I am, sitting in a field of yellowing grass, feeling like a broken machine that no amount of mountain air can jumpstart.

The string lights above me are cold. They’re meant for laughter, for groups of friends sharing milkshakes and taking photos for their feeds. In the lens of a happy person, this place is a sanctuary. In mine, it looks like an abandoned stage after the show has already ended. I came here hoping the "change of scenery" would lift the veil I wrote about on Easter, but the veil is still there. It’s just dustier now from the ride.

I feel like a fool—a true Kulaspiro. A pasaway who thought he could outrun his own shadow on a 150cc motorcycle. The ride back to QC feels longer than the ride here.

But as I was about to head back to the parking lot, a small breeze kicked up. It wasn't much, but it was cool, and for a split second, it carried the scent of something green and living, surviving despite the dry season. It didn't "cure" me, but it was a reminder that even in the parched heat, things are still holding on.

I made the trip. I didn't stay in bed. I saw the turbines turn. Maybe that’s the "success" for today—not that I felt better, but that I actually went somewhere else to feel the same. I’m still a footnote, but today, I’m a footnote written on a different page.

I’m about to start the engine for the long ride back to the haze.

Have you ever traveled far just to realize you brought the weight with you? How are you holding up under your own sky today?

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Lifting the Veil

 I woke up twenty minutes ago, my shirt sticking to my back in the 25°C stillness of the room. There was no nightmare, just a sudden, sharp realization that the world was about to start celebrating a resurrection while I was still very much buried. The humidity in the Metro at this hour feels like a physical weight, a premonition of the 33°C heat that’s going to bake the city by noon.

I pulled my laptop into my lap, the blue light stinging my eyes, and for some reason, the only thing I can smell is Sampaguita and melted wax.

When I was seven, 3:20 AM meant something entirely different. It meant my mother gently shaking me awake in our house in QC, the scratchy feeling of a new Barong Tagalog against my neck, and the excitement of driving through the empty, cool streets toward Sto. Domingo Church. Back then, the Metro didn't feel like a meat grinder; it felt like a cathedral.

I remember standing in the dark crowd at the Galilea—that high platform where the "angels" waited. I remember my father’s hand, calloused and warm, holding mine so I wouldn't get lost in the sea of devotees. We’d wait for the moment of the Salubong, that beautiful, staged encounter between the Risen Christ and the Mourning Mother. When that little girl dressed as an angel would be lowered on a rope to lift the black veil from Mary’s head, the crowd would erupt.

As a kid, I truly believed that when that veil came off, the sadness of the world ended. I thought that was the secret—that someone, somewhere, would eventually lift the darkness for all of us, and we’d all just go home to a breakfast of pandesal and hot chocolate, and everything would be new.

Now, I’m thirty-something, sitting in the dark of a rented room, staring at a resume that feels like a list of ghosts. There is no angel on a rope coming to lift the fog from my brain. There is no crowd cheering for my return to the living. The "veil" I’m wearing isn't made of lace; it’s made of missed opportunities and the chemical imbalance that makes me feel like I’m permanently stuck in the silence of Good Friday.

I wonder if my parents knew, back then, that they were raising a son who would eventually find it hard to even walk out the door. I wonder if they saw the haze starting to settle in my eyes even while I was singing "Alleluia."

But as I sit here, watching the clock tick toward 4:00 AM, I realize that even though I can't feel the "Glory" today, I’m still here to witness the dawn. I woke up. I opened the screen. I’m typing these words into the void. Maybe the resurrection isn't a grand event with trumpets and angels. Maybe for people like us, the resurrection is just the act of choosing to stay awake for one more morning.

The sky over Sto. Domingo will be turning that pale, bruised grey soon. The bells will ring. And even if I’m still under the stone, at least I’m not alone in the dark.

Did you ever have a moment as a kid where you felt like the world was finally "fixed"? Are you still waiting for someone to lift the veil today?

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