MOM (True-to-Life Story)

Written by Roderic Rodriguez

When I was a child, my mom, my siblings, and I spent much of our time hiking and climbing mountains. At the top of the hills, where massive flat rocks stretched out beneath our feet, we set up camp. From there, we could watch the breathtaking sight of clouds drifting like a rolling sea across the horizon.

Our adventures often led us to hidden trails through caves, narrow passages, waterfalls, and underground rivers. Every moment thrilled us, though some were terrifying. The caves were the scariest. Even with candles to light the way, the darkness felt endless. At times, the passages grew so narrow that only one person could squeeze through at a time, forcing us to crawl through the long, airless tunnels.

One night, as we followed a stream deep into the cave, a shiver ran down my spine. A rush of air brushed past me, and then, at the bend of the river, we discovered a small statue of Mother Mary. Flickering candles surrounded it, and fresh flowers lay at its base silent offerings left by those who had prayed there before us.

My mom instructed us to light our own candles as a sign of respect. Then, we waded into the freezing water. It was deeper than I expected, rising above my belly. Smooth pebbles and “living stones” tickled my feet, making me laugh despite the cold.

A faint glow soon appeared beneath the water. The closer we moved, the brighter it became. Without hesitation, my mom dove in and disappeared. We followed, holding our breath, swimming through the submerged passage.

When we emerged on the other side, what greeted us was nothing short of magical lush, untouched forest bathed in golden sunlight. The sight filled me with peace, courage, and wonder. In that moment, I wished we could do it all again. And we did, year after year, returning to embrace the thrill of discovery.

But then, everything changed.

My parents’ marriage fell apart when my father had an affair. I was only eight years old. My mother fought to protect us, but my father’s family wanted us to stay with him. We were too young, too scared, and we ended up living at my grandparents’ house.

The worst moments came with the fights. I’ll never forget the day my uncle punched my mom so hard it knocked out one of her front teeth. Blood dripped from her mouth as she fought back, while my grandmother tried desperately to separate them. The violence only ended when my grandmother collapsed. Brokenhearted, my mom was forced to leave us behind.

Weeks later, she returned secretly to take my two younger sisters, but she never brought them back. Not long after, my father came home and moved us far away, introducing us to a beautiful woman he said would be our new mother.

At first, life seemed better amusement parks, malls, delicious food. Dad was happy again. But after only a month, he left to work abroad. His contract lasted ten years.

That was when our nightmare began.

Life with my stepmother was a living hell. Every day brought pain, suffering, and fear. I was only nine when she first beat me. She accused me of losing a part of her sewing machine—something I had never touched. In her rage, she punched me in the jaw so hard that blood trickled from my ear. She dragged me across the floor, screaming accusations I couldn’t defend myself against.

Terrified, I ran. Tears blurred my vision as I bolted into the night, running for hours until I reached Luneta Park about 13 kilometers away. I told myself I would never return.

But as I stood among street children scavenging for food, I asked myself, is this the life I want?

The answer was NO!

I had dreams. I had a purpose. I was a fighter.

And so, I returned not because I wanted to, but because I believed enduring the pain would make me stronger, just as my mom had always told me: “Everyone faces trials in life. Stay tough, pray, because the best is yet to come.”

Every day was torment. At dawn, I hauled heavy containers of water for the household, my young body aching with every step. Afterward came endless chores scrubbing, cooking, babysitting.

My stepmom’s way of “teaching discipline” was brutal. A misplaced item, a forgotten chore, or even the wrong expression could earn me a slap, a pinch, or a beating. Being the eldest, I took the worst of it not only for my own mistakes but for my siblings’ as well.

One day, she beat me with a heavy 2×2 wooden plank until it snapped in half. My legs turned from purple to black. I lay trembling on the floor, numb from pain, wondering:

“Why is this happening to me?”
“Where is Mom?”
“Dad, why did you leave us?”

The only refuge I had was school. It became my sanctuary, the only place I could breathe.

But even school couldn’t shield me forever. In high school, after I failed a grading period from skipping classes to play computer games, the punishment came swiftly. My stepmom dragged me by the ear out of the principal’s office. At home, she punched me in the stomach, then rained kicks and blows until I curled into a corner, shielding my head.

“If you ever cut class again,” she warned, “this will be nothing compared to what you’ll get.”

I believed her.

At night, I would sit alone on the balcony, staring into the darkness, feeling empty. I thought of my mother often, her warmth, her love, her courage. I longed for her embrace.

I missed our adventures. I missed the mountains, the caves, the wild places that made me feel alive.

Most of all, I missed the woman who taught me that no matter how dark life becomes, there is always hope.

Because I loved my mom.