Before I knew what perfection was, I knew love.
His name was Lolo Ramon—my grandfather, my anchor, my soft place.
He raised me like I was his own daughter. Not a granddaughter, not an obligation—his own. I used to call him Papá Lolo when I was very small, because I thought it was possible for someone to be both.
Maybe for me, he was.
My first memories were with him.
He was the one who taught me to ride a bike, even though I never liked sports. The one who wiped my tears when I failed a spelling quiz in Grade 1. He told me I was smart, even before awards started validating it.
He wasn't a rich man. But he was wealthy in time, in kindness, in presence.
He would carry me on his shoulders during town fiestas and tell the neighbors proudly, "Ito ang pinakamatalinong apo ko."
Even when my handwriting was messy. Even when I cried because I couldn't draw stars as perfectly as my classmates.
He said, "It's okay to be imperfect, hija. That's how we become real."
He was my safe place, my lullaby.
Then came Grade 4.
The day I was taken.
My mother arrived with paperwork and a scowl that could slice through glass. She was beautiful, terrifying, and far too composed. She walked into my grandparents' small house like a typhoon in heels.
"We're done playing house," she said coldly. "She's coming home with me. She's already nine. It's time she learned what discipline is."
Lolo pleaded. He begged.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU83ozB9sGu
But my mother—Estela del Rosario, Bachelor of Psychology, Bachelor of Law, Master's in Business Administration, decorated government officer—was unmoved.
I remember holding onto Lolo's barong as they tried to pull me away. I remember crying so hard my nose bled.
He kissed my forehead before letting go.
"You'll do great things, hija," he whispered through trembling lips. "But don't let them make you forget who you are."
It was the first time I felt what heartbreak truly was.
Not because my mother was evil—she wasn't. She was just broken, trying to cover her cracks with gold medals and diplomas.
Her Success, My Sentence
Living with her was like entering a boot camp for brilliance.
There was no room for tears.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2ckVOy3GK5
No room for rest.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaY4nLD3tGs
No room for second place.
"You'll be better than me," she said once. "You have to be. Because I had you with a man who didn't deserve me, and you will erase that shame."
I was a walking eraser.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHln1BYdxIc
A living redemption arc.
When I got honors, she posted them.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk0FSV7EpsN
When I missed an award, she grounded me.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhJubXCMkaZ
When I sang, she asked me to study.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCsCsoK3c8K
When I wrote poems, she asked if that would earn a salary.
She dressed me like a doll and walked me through halls like a trophy.
And I—I forgot how to be a child.
Years Later: The Funeral
When Lolo Ramon died, I was already working.
Sam was just a baby.
They held the wake in his hometown. The house still smelled of old wood and coconut shampoo. His radio was still tuned to his favorite station. His slippers were by the door, waiting for a man who would never come back.
I stood in front of his casket with my son in my arms and whispered, "I made it, Lolo. But not the way you would've wanted."
Because by then, I had the title. The job. The polished face and practiced voice.
But not the softness.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ4xgjPlhy5
Not the safety.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv5BMyVuqhf
Not the realness he told me never to let go.
And that's when I realized:
It wasn't the perfection I missed.
It was the man who loved me in my mess.
14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCZYQgHDmIk
