He sold his blood so I could continue my studies.
Years later, when he came to ask for money—now that I was earning ₱100,000 a month—I refused to give him even a cent.
When I entered college, I had nothing but an acceptance letter and the dream of escaping poverty. Our life was so difficult that sometimes the neighbors barely noticed when there was a bit of meat on our table.
My mother died when I was ten, and my biological father had long since disappeared.
The man who took me in wasn’t a relative: he was an old friend of my mother’s, a tricycle driver who lived in a small room near the river. After his death, he took it upon himself to care for me despite his own difficulties, trying to give me the best upbringing possible. Throughout my school years, he worked tirelessly, even going into debt, just so I could study.
I remember one night when I needed money for an extra course, but I was embarrassed to ask him for it. Even so, he gave me some crumpled bills, faintly smelling of disinfectant, and said,
„Your father donated blood today. I received a small reward. Take it, son.”
That night I wept silently. Who would donate their blood repeatedly just to help a child who wasn’t their own? My father did. No one knew, just the two of us.
When I was accepted to a prestigious university in Manila, we hugged with tears in our eyes.
„You are strong, son,” he told me. „Study hard. I won’t be able to help you forever, but you must escape this life.”
During my studies, I worked part-time: tutoring, serving in restaurants, whatever I could find. Still, every month he sent me a few hundred pesos. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted,
„It’s my money, and you have a right to it.”
After graduating, I got my first job, earning ₱15,000 a month. I sent him 5,000 pesos immediately, but he sent them back.
„Keep them,” he said. „They’ll be useful later. I’m old now, I don’t need much.”
As the years went by, I became a director and earned 100,000 pesos a month. I suggested he come live with us, but he refused: he loved his quiet, simple life. I knew his stubbornness, so I didn’t insist.
One day, however, he appeared at my door: gaunt, sunburned, trembling. He sat on the edge of the sofa and whispered,
„Son… I’m sick. The doctor says I need an operation—60,000 pesos. I have no one else to ask.”
I looked at him and remembered all his sacrifices: the sleepless nights, the mornings he’d drive me to school in the rain. Then I said in a low voice:
„I can’t… I won’t give you a cent.”
He just nodded. His eyes were filled with pain, but he didn’t protest. He stood up silently, like a rejected beggar.
Before he left, I took his hand, knelt down, and said,
„Dad… you are my real father. How could there be any debt between us? You’ve given me everything. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
He burst into tears. I hugged him, crying beside him. From that day on, he lived with us. My wife welcomed him lovingly and treated him like her own father. Despite his age, he continued to help us at home, and we often traveled together.
Sometimes people ask, „Why do you treat your adoptive father so well, even though he couldn’t give you much before?”
I always answer, „He paid for my education with his blood and his youth.” We may not share the same blood, but he’s my father in all the ways that truly matter.”
Some debts can’t be repaid with money, but gratitude can always return love, time, and sincere care.