LITERARY | After They Go

Since the day my parents went abroad to work as OFW’s, the house has learned how to be quiet.

Mama used to wake me up before sunrise, her voice was soft but firm. Papa sat beside me at night, sounding out words while I traced them carefully, afraid of making mistakes. They told me education was the only inheritance they could give—something no one could steal, no matter how poor we were.

Then, they left.

They said it was temporary. They said it was for me. They said they would come back soon. I believed them just like what every child always does.

After that, all lessons became phone calls. Corrections became messages sent late at night. When the signal was weak, Mama's voice sounded like it was breaking. When the calls ended, the silence returned, heavier than before. I learned how to study alone, how to cry quietly, and how to pretend I was fine.

In school, I was afraid I would forget everything they taught me.

That was when Ma'am Liza noticed.

She lived across the street, in a small house with blue curtains that danced when the wind was like a melody. Every afternoon, I go to her house, holding my notebook the way I used to hold my parents' hand. She taught me slowly, patiently, never rushing, and never raising her voice. When I got an answer wrong, she smiled and said mistakes were proof that I was trying.

Sometimes, rain leaked through her house's roof. Ma'am Liza would move our chairs closer together and tell us stories while we waited for the rain to stop. She said learning did not need perfect buildings—only people who cared enough to stay. And she stayed. Even when her salary was late. Even when the chalk was short. Even when her shoes were worn thin. For a while, it felt like the world had not taken everything from me.

Then one morning, I saw her house was empty.

The blue curtains were gone. The door was locked. The window where I used to stand no longer opened. Someone said Ma'am Liza went abroad.

I did not ask why. I already knew the answer. She left—just like my Mama and Papa.

They said she was teaching children in another country now. Children who did not wait by windows or count the days between calls. Children whose teachers did not have to leave to survive. I wondered if those children knew how lucky they were. I wondered if Ma'am Liza still taught names slowly. I wondered if she remembered mine.

My aunt said, people leave because they want to be rich. But I see the truth in their eyes. They left because hunger is louder than the radio sound, patience cannot be eaten, and dreams grow tired when they are fed only with promises.

A lot of people tell us that this land rewards hard workers. But the fruits are taken before we can even taste them. People work, wait, and hope—only to find their hands still empty. The rain grows stronger every year, but their umbrellas are full of holes. And because of this, people learn how to stand in the storm.

My parents learned it first. Then my teacher.

They folded their lives into suitcases and turned love into money sent home. They taught other children, built other futures, carried our names in their pockets while we learned how to grow up without them.

After they go, it's always the cold phone pressed against my cheek instead of their warm arms. After they go, all that is left is me—alone in the quiet, counting the endless days, clutching their shadows like a lifeline, whispering their names into the dark, wishing they would come back.