Chapter Text
Macoy,
I remember the day I met your Mama Maloi so clearly. In 2001, back when I was still the grumpy 21 year old, fresh out of college and unemployed, begrudgingly watching over your Lola Nenette’s sari-sari store in Davao.
January 28—I could almost smell the simmering paksiw na Bangus from our old dirty kitchen again. I was entertaining three customers at the same time: an eight year old desperately trying to remember if he was asked to buy garlic or ginger, a construction worker who bought a pack of Fortune cigarettes, and your Mama.
She had asked for a bottle of Pop Cola, specifically requesting to have it transferred to a transparent cellophane, and three small packs of Boy Bawang. She handed me a one thousand peso bill, and I remember cursing under my breath because I didn’t have enough change. I gave her an apologetic look, already bracing for the usual annoyed sighs or sarcastic remarks. But your Mama just smiled—that kind of half-smile that barely curled her lips but somehow lit up her whole face. “Okay lang,” she said, as if it really was. “Ate, baka pwede akong kumuha na lang din ng Chippy? Tapos pwedeng pahabol na lang din ng dalawa pang Boy Bawang?”
I nodded, scrambling to get her new order while stealing glances when I thought she wasn’t looking. She wore a plain white shirt, faded jeans, and had her hair tied up with a worn-out scrunchie. Nothing fancy. But there was something in the way she stood there—tapping her foot absentmindedly on the dusty concrete floor—that made the whole sari-sari store feel like the center of the world.
She thanked me, handed over the bill again, and this time I just told her to come back later with the exact amount she owed. She looked surprised. “Sigurado ka?” she asked. I shrugged, trying to act cool, and trying so hard to speak in Tagalog, “Sige lang, balik lang unya—ay mamaya.”
Later that evening, just as I was about to close up shop, she came back—this time with exact amount of coins for the Boy Bawang, Chippy and Pop Cola, which used to only be around 20 pesos in total, and a shy smile that didn’t quite match the confidence she had earlier. “Sorry ha, natagalan ako. Naabutan pa ako ng ulan sa kanto,” she said, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. I counted her coins and told her it was no problem. Honestly, I was just glad she came back.
Then, just as she was about to leave, she paused. “Ikaw ‘yung anak ni Auntie Nenette, no? Sabi niya sa Tita ko ikaw na daw nagbabantay dito ngayon." I nodded. She reached into her plastic bag, took out a Tupperware full of spaghetti, and offered it to me.
That was how it started.
The next few weeks, she came by almost every other day. Sometimes for a soft drink, sometimes just to chat with Lola Nenette, sometimes—and I dared to hope—just to see me. I started waking up early, sweeping the front of the store twice a day, stacking the Boy Bawang at eye level, and making sure there was always cold Pop Cola in stock.
I didn’t know it then, but I was already falling. And not in the dramatic, love-at-first-sight kind of way. It was slower, gentler—like how dusk falls in Davao, warm and patient. Before I knew it, that sari-sari store didn’t feel like a chore anymore. It started feeling like a place I belonged.
Now, sit tight for this one:
Mama was actually on her way to be a Nun. I know it sounds like a joke, and I know I make stuff up a lot, but this is a hundred percent real. Yes, the same woman who once cussed out a tricycle driver for nearly splashing us with canal water, was almost Sister Mama. I would have laughed too if I was also finding this out for the first time now.
But it kind of makes sense. There was always something about her—not just the kindness or the calm, but that sense of... certainty. Like she moved through life knowing exactly who she was, even if she was still figuring everything else out. She didn’t need to be loud to be strong. She didn’t need attention to have a presence. And when she prayed—and believe me, anak, I’ve seen her pray—it wasn’t for show. It was like she was talking to someone she knew was listening.
Maybe you’re wondering. What made her stop? What made Mama trade the convent for paksiw, Pop Cola, and a grumpy 21-year-old girl in puruntong shorts?
I don’t know, but remind me to ask her that later.
It wasn’t until maybe the third month mark that I found out. She came by that afternoon wearing a skirt longer than usual and carrying a worn-out copy of Mga Panalangin Para sa Bawat Araw. I joked, “Aba, mukhang banal tayo ngayon ah,” expecting a playful eye-roll. Instead, she looked down at her dusty old sandals and said, “Pa-final discernment na ako. Kung matutuloy ako, aalis na ako by May.”
“Aalis ka?” I asked, like a fool. “As in... forever?”
“Hindi naman forever,” she said. “Pero matagal. Sa Cebu yung formation. Baka six years din”
Six years. Just like that, it felt like someone knocked the wind out of me with a sack of rice. I wanted to say something smart, something charming, but all I managed was, “Edi paano na yung Boy Bawang?”
After that, her visits became less frequent. I’d sit by the counter, pretending to answer newspaper crossword puzzles, but really just waiting for the soft sound of her sandals scraping against the concrete. Some days, she wouldn’t show up at all. And when she did, we barely talked—just polite smiles and short greetings, like two people on opposite sides of a river.
Then it happened — May 15, 2001.
It had been raining all day, the kind of non-stop, steady drizzle that made the rooftops hum and made the unkempt canals overflow. I was locking up the store early—no customers, no deliveries, just the dull rhythm of rain on galvanized iron—when I heard someone call out from the gate.
It was her.
Soaked down to her elbows, her cardigan clinging to her shoulders, her hair half-escaped from its bun. She looked like she had walked through the whole barangay just to get there. And maybe she had.
I was confused, I heard from a neighbor that she had left the day before. My mind immediately raced through the worst case scenarios, maybe there was a death in the family, maybe someone was sick. But then Mama spoke, in her usual interrogative tone when she knows I’m thinking too much, “Gusto mo malaman kung bakit hindi ako natuloy no?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even nod. I just waited.
She took a deep breath. “Kasi hindi ko maalis sa isip ko ‘yung sari-sari store. Hindi ko maalis sa isip ko…ikaw.”
I swear, anak, the rain didn’t stop.
But everything else did.
I stepped out from under the awning, letting myself get soaked too. “Akala ko ba para kay Lord ka?”
She smiled, and for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t sad. “Sabi niya tulungan daw muna kita sa sari-sari store.”
I don’t know if it was the rain, or the moment, or the way she looked at me like she had already made peace with everything—but I reached out and held her hand. And for a long while, we just stood there. Wet, shivering, and a little stupid, probably. But it was real.
At first, it was awkward—your Lola Nenette was sharp as a blade and twice as quick with judgment. The first time I told her that girl wasn’t going to the convent anymore, she raised one eyebrow so high I thought it would float right off her forehead.
“Pag tarong dira, Colet” she said, arms crossed, squinting at me like I was a can of spoiled sardines.
But your Mama didn’t flinch. She smiled, said good morning like it was the most ordinary thing in the world, and without waiting to be told, started refilling the Yakult fridge and reorganizing the canned sardines by expiry date.
By sundown, she and Lola were already trading recipes for tortang talong and complaining about the neighborhood kids who kept “borrowing” Yakee and never paying.
From then on, it was like she'd always been there.
They ran the store like a pair of mismatched generals—Lola Nenette with her iron tongue and ledger pad, your Mama with her warm patience and secret stash of free SkyFlakes for the toddlers who came by crying. She even made laminated labels for the shelves, turned the backroom into a little pantry, and taught me how to do inventory without falling asleep.
Some days, I’d wake up and find them sipping instant coffee together at the front bench, gossiping about some neighbor’s cousin’s latest mistress like war veterans sharing field notes. Other days, they’d gang up on me. Teasing me for restocking expired Bear Brand or forgetting to sweep under the snack rack.
But there was laughter. Constant, unshakable laughter.
She hadn’t just fallen in love with me. She’d fallen in love with the whole messy, noisy, fish-sauce-scented life we had.
But, anak, your Mama and I were two women, side by side in a tiny sari-sari store in Davao, chasing dreams bigger than our income, and along with that came the unwelcome comments, in early 2000s, things were different—much harder for people like us. We faced neighborhood gossips sharper than fish hooks, but we held on.
That job I landed? It helped. It gave us breathing room, a bit of dignity, and enough to start dreaming out loud. But even then, things weren’t always easy. There were days when I’d come home with my pride dented from a mistake at work, or times when Lola Nenette would give us that long, quiet stare—not because she didn’t love us, but because, like so many of her generation, she didn’t quite have the words for it.
But your Mama, bless her heart, she was the steady hand on my back. She never made me feel like I had to explain or apologize for who I was. And every time I stumbled under the weight of the world, she’d say, “Anong gusto mong ulam bukas?”—as if the answer to my crisis could be found in sinigang or torta.
That’s when I knew, bud.
We didn’t want anything fancy for our wedding. We couldn’t afford a hall or a band, and besides—the place that had seen us through it all was already right there. Our little store. The one that sold banana ketchup and sachets of shampoo and our entire history in between.
So we swept the floor, wiped down the counters, borrowed monobloc chairs from the barangay hall—Mama almost wrestled the Kagawad for his brief hesitation—hung up string lights between the sari-sari sign and the guava tree. Your Mama wore a cream dress she found on sale at Gaisano; I wore the only white dress I owned. We didn’t have a priest or a church—but we had our friends, our neighbors, and Lola Nenette, who gave her blessing with a plate of kutsinta in hand and said in broken Tagalog, “Basta masaya mo duha, ayos na ‘yan.”
And we were.
We danced under the stars, with the radio playing love songs that skipped every few minutes because of bad reception. Someone brought lechon in a foil tray. A kid threw up behind the rice sacks. Maybe it was your Mama's drunk uncle that gave an emotional speech about love and poverty and the price of Pilsen.
It was chaotic. It was imperfect.
It was ours.
And then you came—small, sunburnt and barefoot, probably around 8 or 9, standing just outside the gate of the store staring at the Boy Bawang like it was gold.
You didn’t ask for anything. Just stood there. Watching.
Your Mama called out to you gently. “Gusto mo?”
Mama still cries when we talk about that first day with you. You ate the Boy Bawang she gave you like it was the first proper food you’d eaten in days, which, as we later found out, was true.
We started seeing you more often. First every few days, then daily. You never begged, never stole. Sometimes you’d offer to sweep the store front or carry small loads for Lola Nenette. You told us your name was Macoy—just that, no last name. You didn’t know your birthday. You had no papers, no parents—at least, not yet. Just the streets, and your own two feet.
I remember your Mama looking at me one night as we were closing up.
“Mahal, dito na lang kaya si Macoy?”
I blinked. “Pwede naman. Overnight lang?”
“Hindi,” she said. “Forever.”
Mama knew you were ours first, I’m sorry it took me a little longer to catch up. But, I hope I did okay, anak.
It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t easy. The barangay had questions. The city hall had forms. People talked. Some said it was dangerous. Some whispered about two women raising a boy. But we pushed through. Slowly. Carefully. Together.
It took months. But eventually, we became a household—three toothbrushes by the sink, three plates on the table, three voices laughing behind the store. We gave you a birthday: the day you first stepped into our home. And we gave you a last name: ours.
My boy, you are the reason we started selling school supplies in the store. The reason we added instant pancit canton to the shelf. The reason I learned to patch up scraped knees and help with math homework. You are the reason for every grind, every hustle that led us here.
Thank you for coming to our sari-sari store. Mama and I love you so much. We are so proud to have you as our son.
Congratulations to you and Beth! I hope your bond will be as strong as what Mama and I have. I hope we were able to set the best example for you—that love doesn't always have to be loud or grand, just soft and steady, reliable and secure, not too hot or too cold, just enough. Just right.
Remember, Macoy, love doesn't just happen, love doesn't just stay. It's built by choice, patience, and all the quiet ordinary days in between.
Don’t tell your Mama about this, maangas lang dapat ako.
Love,
Mama Colet