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Dearest Mom,

I am writing this letter hours after I handed you a bouquet of flowers and a cake as I kissed you and said “Happy Mother’s Day.”

You had on your red turban while reorganizing the bottles of perfumes you had displayed in your salon. I never really believed in that little venture but I thought, “As long as it makes you happy.”

You always loved owning sparkly things, loved anything that’s purple or pink. You loved bright things so much that it’s sort of comical how I ended up loving black, grey, or anything that’s dull or neutral. Of course, the colors we like aren’t the only things that we don’t have in common. I’ve only really spent two years with you when I was a child after you and Papa broke up, and another three years when I lived with you in Dubai after college, but those few years were enough for me to say that there’s no one else who knows you like I do.

I know you not from what you say about yourself, I know you not from what others say about you, I know you simply from watching you all those years.

I was there for all the heartbreaks. I was there when we got robbed and you dropped to the floor after realizing that the last of your jewelry was gone. I was there to see all the bad decisions. I was there when my sister was born and you had to figure out how to be a mom again. I was there when Grandma died and you gave that little speech and cried as others watched, and you had no man to lean on so you turned to me and, quite literally, leaned on me as you cried your heart out.

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I was there… for many other things that I cannot even bring myself to write about anymore because, for some reason, I feel like all your mistakes and heartbreaks are mine, too.

Sadly, I was not there when you were diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. You just told me about it three months after I came home and enrolled in law school. I never really asked you about this, but I had always just assumed that you knew I wouldn’t have come home had I known you were sick. Maybe you thought I wanted to be a lawyer so badly so I should go do that already instead of spending years abroad with my heart back at home; maybe you believed in that dream more than I do.

I remember the night I found out, I was still reeling from the grief of losing my grandmother, Papa’s mom, the woman who raised me, the woman you always thought I loved more than I love you. I remember thinking that despite all our differences, I didn’t want you to be sick, I didn’t want you to suffer. I wanted you to be happy, and at peace, and fulfilled in life.

I remember that from that time on, I told myself that I can never argue with you again. You never really understood why our interactions so easily turn into arguments, but I do. My fascination with psychology led me to have a deeper understanding of human behavior, and so I understand our differences.

Remember when I made you take the MBTI test? I was laughing as I was reading your results, which I had already predicted way before you took that test. You’re ESFP, Mom. And I am INFJ. Our communication styles, handling of emotions, and lifestyle preferences are totally opposite. And while I have come to respect those differences, as my mom, you often just insist on making me more like you. I guess you always resented how much of my father you see in me.

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You’re right. In a thousand ways and more, I am so much more like my Papa and my Papa’s parents. But I am like you, too. And in the most beautiful way possible. When we’d go to church when I was a kid, my grandma would often complain that I would have the five-peso coin she gave me to drop into the offertory collection basket during the mass be exchanged to one-peso coins with Grandpa just so I could give one peso to the mendicant outside.

Whenever we’re eating at a restaurant and we were seated by the glass windows and I’d see children right outside begging for alms, I wouldn’t be able to finish my food. I’d stand and give whatever I could.

When Fr. Julius and I put up that charity initiative many years ago, with the goal of providing a small means of livelihood for the poorest of the poor in our city, do you think that was because I am my father’s daughter?

No, Mom. That was all you—the love and kindness and generosity that I saw in you, flowing through my own heart.

Even when you sold the land you inherited, you weren’t smart about it. Instead of making sure you would have enough to sustain the expenses for your cancer treatments, you made decisions that are so truly… you. You weren’t smart, but you blessed so many people with it, to my dismay, of course.

These days I would hear you complain about my sister, some days you would complain about me, you would complain about how we don’t love you enough. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Our ways of coping with life are just completely opposite, but we love you. I love you.

I love you so much that even if I needed to take a longer rest from law school after Papa died, I went back before I felt ready because you always asked me when I would graduate, and that you wish you’d still be around for that. I love you so much that I would light a candle for you in every church I go to, and darken my knees even more as I kneel on church pews begging God to make your cancer go away. I love you so much that I wish I could be all that you dream I could be just so I could make you feel that your life is somehow full. If I could have that degree, get married, and bear a grandchild for you right now, I would. But I can’t.

My heart has been broken way too many times with the passing of Grandpa, then Grandma, then Papa. But the thought of losing you, Mom, is not just heartbreaking, it is soul-corroding. When you told me that night how you still want to live, I felt my whole body tremble. It is a different pain. When my grandparents passed on, they both lived a good and long life. When Papa passed on, I found comfort in knowing he was ready.

Nothing brings me more pain than knowing you are tormented by that disease, that you feel life slipping away each day, and still wishing you can have more of life.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I always tell God that I will endure all your crazy antics for 20 more years if He could just take your cancer away. And I know that God knows how crazy you are, so on the rare times I say I love you, I know God understands just how much.

All my love,

Your first-born

Editor’s Note: Coleen Edrea Ematong is INQUIRER.net’s SEO editor. She is currently in law school, but she hopes to write again someday.