Nickel was only ten years old when he realized that being a child did not mean he was allowed to be weak.
The smell of medicine lingered in the small room as he sat beside the bed, holding his little sister in his arms. She was only two, too young to understand why their father's breathing sounded so heavy, or why his eyes looked so tired when he smiled at them.
Their home was small and old, but once, it had been filled with laughter.
Before sickness and silence took over, there had been four of them.
Nickel still remembered his mother's gentle voice. She used to hum softly while cooking, even when the pain showed on her face. She never complained, never cried in front of them. When cancer finally took her away, the world Nickel knew shattered overnight.
The pain of losing her was unbearable. Yet somehow, the three of them survived—clinging to one another, afraid that letting go would make everything fall apart.
After her death, his father worked harder than ever.
Every morning before the sun rose, he left the house. Every night, he returned exhausted, his clothes smelling of sweat and dust. Nickel learned to cook simple meals, clean the house, and care for his sister without being told. He watched his father closely, memorizing every movement, afraid that one day he might not be there.
Then one morning, his father didn't get up.
The illness came quietly at first. A cough. A fever. Weakness that never fully disappeared. Days passed, and the cough grew worse. The fever stayed. Soon, his father could no longer work.
That was when Nickel began to work.
After school, he ran errands, carried loads, cleaned shops—anything that earned a few coins. Some days he earned enough for rice. Other days, he came home with empty hands and a forced smile. Still, he never complained.
That evening, Nickel returned home with scraped palms and a small handful of coins clutched tightly in his fist. It wasn't much, but it would be enough for one meal.
When he opened the door, his sister ran toward him, laughing as she wrapped her tiny arms around his legs.
"Kuya," she said softly.
Nickel smiled and lifted her up, resting his forehead against hers. For a moment, the exhaustion faded.
Then he heard coughing from the bedroom.
It was weak. Painful.
His steps slowed.
Inside the room, his father lay on the bed, eyes half-open, struggling to breathe evenly. When he noticed Nickel, he forced a smile.
"You're home," his father said.
Nickel nodded. "I'll make dinner."
As he turned away, he felt a strange heaviness in his chest—something he didn't understand yet, but something that scared him more than hunger or exhaustion.
That night, as his sister slept beside him and the house grew quiet, Nickel stared at the cracked ceiling.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But he knew one thing.
From this moment on, he could no longer afford to be just a child.