The Kindness That Never Came - Part II

The Versions People Don’t See

There is another layer to this that is harder to talk about.

Not because it’s unclear.

But because it is.

There are versions of people that only exist in certain rooms.

Versions that only come out when no one else is watching.

Versions that never make it into the stories other people hear.

And I have lived long enough to know this:

The person your children see

is not always the same person you have known behind closed doors.

This is the part that breaks something in me quietly.

Because I look at my children -- especially M --

and I know they are forming their understanding of me

without ever fully seeing the other side of the story.

Without ever witnessing the silence I’ve sat through.

Without ever feeling what it’s like

to speak about something serious -- something real --

and be met with nothing.

They don’t see that.

They don’t see the moments when I said,

“I’m going through something medically,”

and the conversation was redirected like it never mattered.

They don’t see the absence.

And absence is very hard to prove to someone

who has never had to sit inside it.

There are no raised voices to point to.

No dramatic scenes to retell.

Just the quiet, repeated experience of being… dismissed.

And how do you explain that to someone

who has not felt it in their own body?

Sometimes I wonder what they think.

What version of me exists in their minds.

What conversations have shaped that version.

What silences have filled in the gaps.

And then I remember something that was said to me --

not in anger, not in passing, but clearly enough to stay.

“Kapag wala ka, masaya kami ng mga bata.

Kaya dapat talaga makalipat ka na sa ibang bahay.”

When you’re gone, we’re happy.

There are words that don’t need to be repeated many times to take root.

That was one of them.

Because it wasn’t just about leaving a space.

It was about being made to feel like your absence is an improvement.

Like your presence is the disruption.

And when you carry that into everything that follows --

every silence, every dismissal, every moment of indifference --

you start to see a pattern that is hard to unsee.

But the hardest part of all of this is not even what was said.

It’s what is not seen.

My children, especially M,

do not see this version of their father.

They don’t see the disengagement.

They don’t see the indifference.

They don’t see how kindness can simply… not be given.

And because they don’t see it,

it does not exist in their understanding.

So when they form their judgments,

when they create distance,

when they decide how to respond to me,

they are doing it with only part of the picture.

And I am left holding the other half.

Quietly.

There is a particular loneliness in that.

In knowing something deeply,

but not being able to make others see it

without sounding like you are trying to convince them.

So I have learned something difficult.

Not everything that is true about your experience

will be visible to the people you love.

And sometimes,

they will make decisions about you

without ever knowing the full weight of what you carried.

But here is the line I refuse to cross:

I will not turn into someone who needs to expose,

prove, or tear down another person

just to be believed.

Because at the end of the day,

my truth does not become more valid

just because someone else finally sees it.

It is already valid.

Even if it is unseen.

And maybe one day,

when they are older,

when they have lived more,

when they have experienced silence in their own lives,

they will understand the difference between

what is said

and what is withheld.

Until then,

I carry my truth quietly.

Not because it is small.

But because it is mine.

The Kindness That Never Came - Part I

There is a certain kind of silence that doesn’t just go unheard -- it wounds.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Not even openly cruel.

Just… nothing.

And sometimes, nothing is the loudest thing of all.

I never asked for love from him anymore.

Not after everything. Not after the distance. Not after the separation.

I let go of that already.

What I held onto -- maybe foolishly, maybe humanly --

was the smallest thread of decency.

Not affection. Not care. Not even concern.

Just kindness.

Just a simple, human response to another human being who said:

“I’m not well.”

I told him I had procedures.

I told him I was seeing doctors.

I mentioned biopsies, surgeries, things that are not casual words in anyone’s life.

And every single time --

he changed the topic.

Ignored it.

Skipped over it like it was a typo in a sentence.

Not one question.

Not one:

“What happened?”

Not one:

“Are you okay?”

Not even the most basic:

“Take care.”

And I realized something I wasn’t ready to admit:

It’s not that he doesn’t know how to be kind.

It’s that he is choosing not to be -- to me.

That’s the part that stings.

Because kindness is not intimacy.

Kindness is not vulnerability.

Kindness does not require emotional investment.

Kindness is the bare minimum.

And when even that is withheld, you are no longer dealing with someone who is simply distant.

You are dealing with someone who has decided -- consciously or unconsciously --

that you are no longer worthy of even the smallest human acknowledgment.

I kept thinking:

“If the situation were reversed, I would ask.”

And I would.

Even if I were angry.

Even if I were hurt.

Even if I wanted nothing more to do with him.

I would still ask.

Because illness strips everything down to one truth:

we are all human before anything else.

But what happens when the person in front of you refuses even that shared humanity?

What do you call a man who can hear the words biopsy, surgery, cancer --

and respond with silence?

Not confusion.

Not ignorance.

Silence.

At some point, you have to stop asking,

“What kind of person does that?”

And start telling yourself the truth:

This is a person who has emotionally checked out so completely

that even kindness feels like too much effort.

And that realization is both devastating and clarifying.

Because once you see it for what it is,

you stop waiting.

You stop hoping for that one line:

“I’ll tell the kids to pray for you.”

You stop expecting basic decency from someone who has made it clear, repeatedly,

that they are not going to give it.

And the hardest part?

It’s not even the silence anymore.

It’s accepting that the silence is intentional.

But here’s the truth I am holding onto now:

His absence of kindness does not define my worth.

It defines his capacity.

Or rather, his lack of it.

I am still someone who would ask.

I am still someone who would care.

I am still someone who would pause and say,

“What happened to you?”

And I will not shrink that part of me just because someone else chose to erase it.

Because at the end of the day,

I would rather be someone who feels deeply

than someone who feels nothing at all.

And if kindness is the lowest form of love,

then withholding it says more than any cruel word ever could.

My Deepest Pain

I need to write this down clearly, honestly, and without softening it -- because what M did to me was foul. It was deeply painful, heavy, and something no mother should ever have to hear from her own child.

He called me a homewrecker.

He said I am dead to him.

He blocked me.

He told me to go live in a separate house so they can have peace.

There is no way to pretend that this is okay. It is not.

That behavior is wrong. My pain is valid. I did not deserve to be spoken to that way.

And yet… I need to understand what is really happening underneath this, because reacting only from pain will not help me.

What I see now -- and I have to remind myself of this -- is that what he is doing is not coming from clarity. It is coming from pain and confusion.

M sees his father as a “very good dad.” That is his reality.

He does not know what happens when no one is watching.

He does not know what I went through behind closed doors.

He does not know the full story of why I chose to separate.

So his mind simplifies everything into something he can hold onto:

“Mom caused this.”

That is not the truth. But it is the version that protects his image of his father.

And this is the part that hurts me the most -- he is judging me without knowing what I endured. I suffered privately, and now I am being judged publicly. That is a double pain I am carrying.

I also need to accept something very hard:

It’s not that he doesn’t want the truth -- it’s that he is not emotionally ready to hear it.

If he listens to me, then his image of his father may crack.

If that happens, his entire sense of reality may be shaken.

That is too painful for him right now.

So instead, he chooses anger.

He chooses blame.

He chooses distance.

And as much as it destroys me, I have to understand that this is easier for him than facing the truth.

I also need to remind myself of this firmly:

I cannot force him to understand me.

Even if I explain everything perfectly, even if I defend myself, even if I tell the whole story -- if he is closed, he will not receive it. And if I push, I may push him further away.

So what do I do as his mother?

Not silence -- but restraint.

I know my truth. I lived it. I do not need to prove it right now.

I also do not need to accept his disrespect -- but I do not need to fight it either. Words like “homewrecker” and “dead to me” are not truth. They are emotional reactions coming from confusion and pain.

What I need to hold onto is this:

I can leave the door open without chasing him.

Even if he has blocked me, my stance remains --

“I am here when you are ready. I am still your mother.”

No forcing. No chasing. No begging to be understood.

This is one of the hardest things I will ever have to do.

Because what hurts me deeply is this:

He does not know what I went through.

He does not know the real story.

He does not know the pain I carried for years.

And still, I am the one being blamed.

But I have to anchor myself in truth:

I am not a homewrecker.

I am not a bad mother.

I am not someone who deserves to be erased.

I am a mother who made a difficult decision.

I am a mother who is misunderstood.

I am a mother who is grieving a relationship that is still alive but broken.

And that is a very real kind of grief.

I also need to remind myself of something that requires patience:

Truth has a way of surfacing over time.

He may not see it now.

He may not understand anytime soon.

But people grow. People mature. Perspectives change.

This is not necessarily permanent -- even if it feels like it right now.

So for now, I hold my ground quietly.

I protect my peace.

I keep my dignity.

I do not chase.

I do not force.

And I leave a space for him -- if and when he is ready.

Until then, I will come back to this entry and remind myself:

This is not because I am wrong.

This is because he is not ready.

 

I Can Speak My Truth Without Turning It into a Battle

There is a kind of pain that comes from being misunderstood by strangers.

And then there is a deeper kind of pain -- when it comes from your own children.

I am carrying the second kind.

There are words that were said to me that I never imagined I would hear from them.

Controlling.
Abusive.
Homewrecker.
Dead.

These are not just words.

They stay.

They echo in quiet moments, especially at night, when everything else becomes still.

And I ask myself how I became someone they now see this way.

I know I was not perfect.

I had my emotions. I had my struggles. I had moments I wish I handled differently.

But I also know I loved deeply.

And that part seems to be missing in how I am now seen.

There are things said about me that feel unfair.

Things that come from perspectives I was not part of, conversations I was not included in, judgments formed without hearing my full story.

I see how influence works.

I see how proximity shapes closeness, how living under the same roof creates a stronger voice, a stronger presence.

And I see where I stand now.

On the outside.

Trying to make sense of everything while also carrying my own battles -- my health, my treatments, my fears.

There are moments when I feel like I lost not just connection, but place.

Like I no longer belong where I once did.

And that is a very lonely feeling.

I am not writing this to fight.

I am not writing this to prove that I am right and they are wrong.

I am writing this because I need somewhere to place the truth that lives inside me.

Because keeping it all in silence feels heavier than speaking it, even if only to myself.

I still love them.

That has not changed.

Even now.

Even here.

But I am also learning that I can hold my truth without turning it into a battle.

That I can acknowledge my pain without using it as a weapon.

That I can remain a mother -- even when I feel unseen as one.

And maybe, for now, that is enough.

The Truth I Cannot Say Out Loud

Today my heart feels scattered.

There is so much pain in being misunderstood -- not just by one person, but by the people I love the most.

I feel like they have all turned against me.

Like I am standing alone while they stand together.

I have been called controlling.
Abusive.
A homewrecker.
Dead to my own child.

These are words I never imagined would be used against me by the very people I gave my life to.

And it cuts deeply.

I see how their father influences them.

I see how his voice carries weight in their lives now.

And I feel like I am losing ground -- not because I stopped loving them, but because I no longer have the same place, the same presence, the same resources.

There is a part of me that feels replaced.

Like I no longer matter in the same way.

Like I am the one left behind.

Even the smallest things hurt -- like not being acknowledged when he leaves, like being made to feel like I do not belong in my own space.

And I carry all of this while dealing with my health, my medications, my own fears.

It is too much some days.

And I do not know where to place all this pain.

When Faith Hurts: Asking God the Questions I Was Never Supposed to Ask

I am a Catholic.

I was raised to believe in a God who is loving, just, and merciful. A God who sees everything, knows everything, and holds every tear. A God who protects, who provides, who comforts.

But today, I am not writing from a place of comfort.

I am writing from a place of pain.

Because I need to ask something that I have been afraid to say out loud:

Why is God allowing this to happen to me?

I look at my life right now, and I do not see protection. I see illness. I see my body slowly becoming something I struggle to recognize. I see medical tests, procedures, fear, and uncertainty. I see a future that feels fragile and unclear.

And then there is my heart -- the deeper wound.

My children.

The very people I carried, loved, raised, and poured myself into are now distant from me in ways I cannot understand. There is a silence where there used to be connection. There is a gap I cannot cross, no matter how much I want to.

And I am left here asking:

What did I do to deserve this?

Am I being punished?

Am I the kind of sinner that deserves to be stripped of the very people I love most?

Because if God is all-knowing, then He knows exactly where my deepest weakness lies. He knows that my children are my heart. He knows that losing them -- even not physically, but emotionally -- would be the kind of pain I would not know how to survive.

And yet, here I am.

Living it.

So I ask again, and this time without filters:

Is God unjust?

Does He play favorites?

Because sometimes it feels like He does.

There are people who seem to move through life with ease -- with their families intact, their health stable, their lives moving forward. And then there are people like me, who feel stuck in a place of loss, confusion, and suffering.

I am trying to hold on to my faith, but I would be lying if I said it feels strong.

Right now, my faith feels like something I am questioning more than trusting.

I am not writing this because I have answers.

I am writing this because I don’t.

Because sometimes, the most honest form of faith is not certainty -- it is the courage to ask hard questions, even when they feel dangerous.

I still believe in God.

But I do not understand Him.

And maybe that is where I am right now -- not in peace, not in clarity, but in a place where belief and pain are sitting side by side, and neither one is letting go.

If this is faith, then it is not the kind I was taught growing up.

It is quieter. It is heavier.

And it hurts.

But it is real.

Pain that Feels too Heavy to Carry

Today, I find myself sitting quietly with a kind of pain that feels too heavy to carry, yet too real to ignore.

There is a grief inside me that I cannot fully explain -- not because I lack the words, but because the feeling itself is deeper than anything I have ever known. It is the grief of feeling like I have lost the people I love most in this world, while they are still alive and somewhere within reach, yet so far from me.

I think of M and G, and my heart breaks in a way that feels endless. I do not understand how things became like this. I keep going back to the memories I hold -- the years I spent loving them, raising them, doing my best in the ways I knew how. And yet now, I feel as if I am standing outside of their lives, looking in, unseen and unheard.

What hurts me even more is how I receive pieces of them -- not from them, but through someone else. Their father has become the only link I seem to have, and yet that link does not feel safe or kind. He brings me words that pierce my heart, words that make me question myself as a mother, words that make me feel as if my children see me in ways I cannot recognize.

I do not know what is true and what is not. I do not know if what I am being told is exactly how my children feel, or if it is being shaped in a way that slowly breaks me. But I do know this -- every time I hear these things, a part of me aches deeply, and I begin to doubt myself in ways I never used to.

It feels as though my perspective is being quietly dismantled, piece by piece. I find myself asking questions that hurt me even more: Was I really that kind of mother? Did I fail them in ways I did not see? Or am I being made to believe something that is not the whole truth?

And yet, even in all this confusion, one thing remains clear to me -- I loved my children. I still do. That has never changed.

I am also carrying my own battles -- my health, my body, the fear and uncertainty of what lies ahead. And in moments like this, I long not for attention, but for something much simpler and more human: care, concern, presence. To be asked, “How are you?” To feel that I still matter.

But instead, I am left here -- holding my pain quietly, trying to make sense of everything without breaking apart.

Tonight, I acknowledge this truth: I am grieving. Not just for what is happening now, but for what used to be, for what I hoped would always remain, and for the love I still carry that has nowhere to land.

And yet, even in this sorrow, I hold on to one small truth that I refuse to let go of -- that the love I gave was real, and that it still lives within me, even if it is not being returned in the way I long for.

For now, I will sit with this. I will breathe through it. I will allow myself to feel it, without forcing answers that are not yet clear.

Because this pain deserves to be witnessed -- even if only by me.

Casa Arcoiris de Anna Renovation Update

My modest townhouse is slowly coming to life, and this time, I want to look at it not with frustration, but with hope. The delays have been real, and there were moments when I felt tired, discouraged, and disappointed by how slowly things were moving. But I do not want this season to be defined only by delay. I want it to be defined by grace, patience, and the quiet faith that something beautiful is still being prepared for me.

With every new photo, every finished corner, every cabinet installed, and every room slowly taking shape, I am reminded that not all good things arrive quickly. Some things are built gently, little by little, until one day you look around and realize that what once lived only in your heart is now becoming real before your eyes. This is no longer just a dream I carried inside me -- it is slowly becoming the home I have long prayed for.

Seeing these latest renovation updates reminds me that even slow progress is still progress. Little by little, room by room, it is all becoming real. The colors, the built-ins, the details, and the spaces that once lived only in my mind are now standing before me. What I imagined quietly, what I waited for patiently, and what I held on to through disappointment are now beginning to take form.

I am holding on to the hope that by the end of March, I can begin filling it with the furniture and appliances it needs, so that when I return to the Philippines for another six months, I will finally have a home to call my own. Ready not just as a structure, but as a home. A place where I can rest. A place where I can breathe. A place where I can wake up in peace and know that I have a space that is truly my own. And perhaps, when my mother visits the Philippines, it can welcome her too with the same warmth and comfort.

More than anything, I see this becoming my sanctuary. Not a grand place, not a perfect place, but a deeply personal one -- a shelter for my tired heart, a quiet corner for healing, and a gentle beginning after so much pain. A place that will hold not the noise of old pain, but the calm of a new chapter. A place where I can live peacefully, breathe deeply, and simply be. A place where I can slowly build a peaceful life, one room, one day, one prayer at a time.

After everything, there is something deeply meaningful about building a space for myself -- especially after knowing what it feels like to be left behind by people who once should have stayed. Perhaps that is why this home matters so much to me. It is not just about walls, cabinets, colors, or finishing touches. It is about reclaiming peace. It is about reclaiming dignity. It is about preparing a life that is gentle, stable, and my own.

And maybe that is why these photos move me so deeply. They are not only showing renovation progress. They are showing a life being rebuilt. They are showing hope taking shape in concrete, color, wood, light, and space. They are showing that even after heartbreak, even after disappointment, even after abandonment, something tender and beautiful can still be made.

So I choose to look at these updates with a softer spirit now. I choose to be thankful for progress, even when it came slowly. I choose to believe that when this home is finally complete, it will hold not only my things, but also my healing. And for that, I remain hopeful.