He sold his blood so that I could study, but now that I earn 100,000 ₱ a month, when he came to ask me for money, I didn’t give him a single cent.
When I was accepted to university, I had nothing but an acceptance letter and the dream of escaping poverty. Our life was so hard that whenever there was meat on the table, the whole neighborhood knew about it.
My mother died when I was only ten years old, and my biological father had disappeared long before I could meet him. The only person who took me in was a man with no blood relation to me: my adoptive father.
He was my mother’s best friend in her youth and made a living by pushing a cart or driving a tricycle. He lived in a small ten-square-meter room rented by the river. When my mother died, it was he who, despite his own poverty, offered to raise me. Throughout all my years of study, he worked day and night, even going into debt, just so I wouldn’t give up on my education.
I remember once having to pay for an extra course, but I was too embarrassed to ask him. That evening, he silently handed me some crumpled bills that smelled of hospital medicine and gently said,
‘Your father just gave his blood. They gave me a small reward. Take it, my son.’
I cried that night. Who would willingly give their blood again and again just to fund the education of a child who isn’t even their biological son? My father did it throughout high school. No one ever knew, except the two of us.
When I was accepted into a prestigious university in Manila, he almost cried with joy as he hugged me and said,
‘You are strong, my son. Fight. I won’t be able to help you forever, but you must study to make your way in life.’
During my studies, I worked several part-time jobs: in cafés, tutoring, anywhere I could. Even so, he continued to send me a few hundred pesos every month, even though it was all he had. I told him not to, but he would always reply,
‘It’s my money, and you have the right to receive it, my son.’
After I graduated, I got a job in a foreign company. My first salary was 15,000 pesos, and I immediately sent him 5,000. But he refused and said,
‘Save that money. You’ll need it later. I’m old now, and I don’t need much.’
Nearly ten years had passed, and I had become a director. My monthly salary exceeded 100,000 pesos. I considered taking him to live with me in the city, but he refused. He said he was already used to his simple life and didn’t want to be a burden. Knowing his stubbornness, I didn’t insist.
Until the day he came to visit me. He was very thin, his skin tanned by the sun, and his hair completely gray. He sat timidly at the edge of the sofa and said in a low voice,
‘My son… your father is already old.’ My vision is blurred, my hands tremble, and I often fall ill. The doctor says I need an operation that will cost about 60,000 pesos. I have no one else to turn to… that’s why I came to ask you for a loan.
I remained silent. I remembered the nights when he would prepare rice and soup for me when I was sick. The times he came home drenched from the rain, carrying my backpack that I had forgotten at school. The mornings when I waited for him early after classes, asleep in an old armchair.
I looked him in the eyes and said softly,
‘I can’t. I won’t give you a single cent.’
He stayed silent. His gaze clouded over, but he didn’t get angry. He simply nodded slowly and stood up, like a spurned beggar.
But before he left, I took his hand and knelt down. Dad… you are my real father. How can we speak of debts between a father and his son? You gave me your whole life; now let me take care of you for the rest of yours. You once said, «A father’s money is a son’s right»; now, my money is yours.
Then he broke down in tears. I held him tightly in my arms, like a child scared by a nightmare. His trembling back made me cry too.
Since that day, he has lived with us. My wife didn’t object; on the contrary, she cared for him lovingly. Even though he was already old, he continued to help around the house, and whenever we could, we traveled or went out together.
I am often asked, ‘Why do you treat your adoptive father so well when he could hardly give you anything during your studies?’ I smile and answer,
‘He paid for my education with his blood and his youth. We are not related by blood, but he loved me more than a real father. If I don’t take care of him, what would be the point of my life?’
There are debts in this world that money cannot repay. But when it comes to gratitude, it is never too late to give it—fully, sincerely, and from the heart.
