He sold his blood so 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 college, I had nothing but an admissions letter and a dream of escaping poverty. Our life was so hard that when 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 disappeared long before I could meet him. The only one who took me in was a man with no blood ties to me: my adoptive father.
He was my mother’s best friend in her youth and earned a living pushing a cart or riding a tricycle. He lived in a small ten-square-meter rented room by the river. When my mother died, it was he who, despite his own poverty, offered to raise me. Throughout my years of study, he worked day and night, even going into debt, just so I wouldn’t have to drop out of school.
I remember once, I needed to pay a fee for an extra class, but I was embarrassed to ask him. That night, he silently handed me some crumpled bills that smelled of hospital medication and said gently,
«Your father just donated blood. They gave me a small reward. Take it, son.»
I cried that night. Who would submit to donating blood again and again just to support the studies of a child who isn’t even their biological son? My father did it all through high school. No one ever knew, except for the two of us.
When I was accepted to a prestigious university in Manila, he almost cried with joy as he hugged me and said,
«You are strong, son. Fight. I won’t be able to help you forever, but you must study to get out of this life.»
During college, I worked several part-time jobs: in cafes, tutoring, wherever I could. Even so, he continued to send me a few hundred pesos each month, even though it was all he had left. I told him not to, but he always replied,
«It’s my money, and it’s your right to receive it, son.»
After graduation, I got a job at a foreign company. My first salary was 15,000 pesos, and I sent him 5,000 pesos right away. But he rejected it and said,
«Save that money. You’ll need it in the future. I’m old now, and I don’t need much.»
Almost ten years passed, and I became a director. My monthly salary exceeded 100,000 pesos. I thought about bringing 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 one day he came to visit me. He was very thin, with sun-darkened skin and completely gray hair. He sat timidly on the edge of the sofa and said in a low voice,
«Son… your father is already old.» My vision blurs, my hands shake, and I get sick often. 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 you for a loan.
I remained silent. I remembered the nights he cooked me rice and soup when I was sick. The times he came back soaked from the rain carrying my backpack I’d forgotten at school. The early mornings I’d wait up for him to return from tutoring, asleep in an old chair.
I looked him in the eye and said gently,
«I can’t. I won’t give you a single cent.»
He remained silent. His eyes clouded over, but he didn’t get angry. He just nodded slowly and stood up, like a rejected beggar.
But before he left, I took his hand and knelt down.
«Dad… you’re my real father. How could we possibly talk about debts between father and 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 burst into tears. I hugged him tightly, like a child frightened by a nightmare. His trembling back made me cry too.
From that day on, he lived with us. My wife didn’t object; on the contrary, she cared for him lovingly. Although he was already old, he continued to help out at home, and when we could, we traveled or went out together.
I’m often asked, «Why do you treat your adoptive father so well when he could barely give you anything when you were studying?»
I just smile and answer, «He paid for my studies with his blood and his youth. We’re not blood relatives, 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 pay. But when it comes to gratitude, it’s never too late to return it — fully, sincerely, and from the heart.
