Scratches of Survival: A heart that bleeds in silence
“Isang kahig, isang tuka.”
I hear it in every meal I stretch,
in every grain of rice
I measure too carefully.
The house is small,
the walls thin,
but the silence of my own helplessness
feels heavier than all of it.
My husband works himself raw,
my son studies with all his strength,
and I am here—
hands aching to help,
but tied by the emptiness of our means.
I mend clothes until the thread runs out,
I cook whatever is left,
I pretend the portions fill us.
Then the school asks again.
Sudden fees, sudden papers,
sudden proof that dreams
are always more expensive than we can afford.
And I sit there,
feeling the ache in my chest,
knowing I can’t conjure money
out of thin air.
I want to shield him from the worry,
to tell him study, anak,
just study,
don’t mind the weight I carry in silence.
But I see his eyes,
the guilt, the restraint,
and it cuts me deeper than hunger ever could.
“Isang kahig, isang tuka.”
For others, it’s just a phrase.
For me, it is a wound that never heals—
because loving this much
and not being able to give enough
is its own kind of poverty.