Andi didn't open the safety deposit box right away.
At first, she thought it was just another one of Lolo's "business things"— maybe documents, old property titles, things she didn't really care about.
But something about the way he handed her that key—gentle, almost regretful—made her stomach twist.
So, on a Tuesday afternoon, when her siblings were at school and the house was too quiet to think, she took the key, went to the bank, and opened the box.
What she found wasn't legal papers.
It was a small leather journal. Three polaroids. And an envelope addressed to:
Andrea. For when you're old enough to understand why I left.
—Mama
She read the letter sitting on a wooden bench outside the bank, tears sliding down her cheeks so quietly that she didn't even notice she was crying until her vision blurred.
---
Andrea,
If you're reading this, I'm probably gone. And I hate that.
I hate not being able to see you grow into the beautiful woman I know you'll become.
But I also know that if you're holding this letter,
you've already survived so much.
I didn't run away because I hated my father.
I ran away because I couldn't breathe in that house.
I wanted love that didn't come with conditions.
I wanted a life where I didn't have to beg to be seen.
And then I met your Papa.
Andi, he was messy. Loud.
He stained every white couch we ever owned.
But he loved us with a kind of joy that made everything else feel small.
You, Bella, and Gesly were the best things I ever did.
If one day your Lolo Dela Vuega gives you this letter, it means he's trying—
even if he's terrible at showing it.
He's proud. But deep down, he always loved me.
He just didn't know how to say it until it was too late.
Be better than us.
Be louder in your love.
And never let anyone tell you that money is more important than warmth.
With all my love,
Mama
---
Andi folded the letter carefully, placed it back in the envelope as if it were made of glass,
and stared up at the sky— trying to remember how her mother used to smile.
She couldn't. Not clearly. And that broke her all over again.
She didn't want to go home yet. She didn't want Bella to see her like this. Gesly would ask too many questions. She didn't want to break in front of them.
So she called the one person who made her feel like she could be broken and still be whole.
"Alonzo… where are you?" Her voice cracked. That was all it took.
"Near campus. Why, what's wrong?"
"Can we… can we see each other?"
"Give me ten minutes. I'm coming."
Ten minutes later, he found her still sitting outside the bank, hugging her bag like it was her only anchor.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't say what happened? or are you okay?
He just sat beside her. Waited. Listened.
Until she finally whispered, "She left because she was suffocating. She didn't want to be someone else's legacy. She just wanted love." Then, with tears in her voice, "Why does it hurt like I lost her again today?"
Alonzo didn't say anything smart. Didn't try to fix it.
He just wrapped his arms around her
and held her tighter than any words ever could.
Andi cried into his shoulder like a little girl
who had finally been told a truth she never asked for.
And as the sun set behind them, casting long shadows on that cold bench outside the bank—
She felt warm.
Because maybe grief never really ends.
But sometimes, you find someone willing to sit with you in the storm.
---
They sat there for a long time.
No music. No jokes. No fast food between them like usual.
Just the faint hum of cars passing by,
and the steady rhythm of Andi's breathing as it slowly calmed.
Her head stayed on Alonzo's shoulder,
even when the tears dried. Even when the world began to move again.
"Feeling better?" he finally asked, his voice soft, as if afraid he might break her all over again.
Andi nodded, but didn't lift her head. "No. But I can breathe again."
That was enough.
Later that night, when she got home, Bella and Gesly were already asleep.
She walked quietly into her room, placed the envelope inside her drawer, and sat on her bed.
She didn't cry anymore. Maybe she was just tired.
Instead, she took one of the polaroids from her bag and held it up to the light.
Her mother was there—laughing. Mid-laugh, actually. Her hair a little messy, wearing a sundress Andi swore she'd seen once
in an old laundry box.
Beside her, their Papa— his arm around her waist, both of them blurred from moving too fast in joy.
They looked so alive. So unbothered by the world. So… free.
Andi smiled, just a little.
For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel the weight of needing to be perfect. Or strong. Or composed.
She just felt like a daughter.
The next morning, she woke up earlier than usual. Cooked breakfast without rushing.
Made Bella's hot chocolate with a heart in the foam (using the back of a spoon—the TikTok trick Bella once showed her).
Prepared Gesly's socks, even though he never asked.
When they both walked to the table, they froze.
Bella blinked. "Ate… you seem… in a good mood?"
"Maybe she's just high blood," Gesly muttered, sniffing the eggs suspiciously. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," Andi said, sipping her coffee slowly. "Just felt like taking care of you today."
Bella lit up. "Wow! Can you feel like that every day?"
Gesly squinted at her. "You bought something, didn't you? Or… you're hiding something. You got a new boyfriend?"
"Gesly," Andi said flatly. "Shut up and eat your tocino."
He grinned. "Copy."
But peace didn't mean she forgot.
All that week, she reread the letter at night when the house was quiet.
Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she just stared at her reflection and wondered if her mother ever looked in the mirror and asked herself, Did I do the right thing?
Maybe they both had the same question now.
But somewhere between the grief, she found a strange sort of calm— like knowing why finally gave her permission to stop carrying the weight in silence.
A few nights later, she was curled up in bed,
the lamp beside her casting a warm glow on the journal.
She hadn't opened it yet.
But tonight… she was ready.
Inside were pages of her mother's thoughts. Memories. Fears.
A few grocery lists written in a rush. A page that simply said,
"He bought me taho today. The big kind. I cried. He laughed."
Another page read, "Andi just said her first full sentence. 'Mama happy here.' I didn't know my heart could break from joy."
That one made her cry again. But quietly, this time.
Because they were just words on paper— but they felt like arms around her.
When she finally closed the journal, she picked up her phone.
Andi:
Thank you for staying the other day.
Even if I was a mess.
Alonzo:
You weren't a mess.
You were a daughter grieving her mother.
And I'll sit with you in that pain anytime you need.
She stared at the message for a long time before replying:
Andi:
You're dangerous.
Alonzo:
Why?
Andi:
You make broken feel like home.
And maybe that was the scariest part of healing—
Not the pain.
But the possibility that even when you're still shattered, someone can see the beauty in your cracks… and stay anyway.