I AM a single mother and I am proud of it.
I got pregnant at 17, was married at 18. When I got my AB I was 21 and had two children. At 26, I was a mother of four: a girl, a boy, and then another girl, then another boy. “Starting young” was an understatement.
At 31, after years of turbulence, I left my husband and took the two older children with me. On that first night we only had one lightbulb, no refrigerator, no bed. We slept on the floor.
All this happened ten years ago but the details are vivid. On that monster of a day, I took a break for a few hours by editing op-ed columns and writing an editorial.
Only after a lawsuit was I able to gain custody of the two younger children. At that time, the children were 13, 11, seven and five.
The primary struggle was money. There were exam days the kids were sent home because they were behind in tuition payments. Ordering fastfood was a luxury reserved for special occasions. I once had to slice a birthday cake so thin because it was small and there were so many well-wishers who came by. Six months after I crossed over, my apartment was still sparse. We went without a couch for a long time and subsisted on old monobloc chairs. The TV was most definitely not large and not flat. For some art on the wall, I put a montage of the kids’ baby pictures on an illustration board and wrapped it in plastic.
Along with the custody case I also brought a support suit before the court. At that time, I had this newspaper job whose rewards were mostly psychic. There was rent and school and food and medical issues to worry about. I took back rides on tricycles, brought baon of boiled corn to the office and sold—haggled over the price of—old appliances to junk shops.
I like to think we carried it well. Case in point: My son attended his grade school ball with a long-sleeved shirt I got for P50 at an ukay-ukay shop in Quiapo. He was named Prince of the Night, anyway.
But boy, I had to contend with talk. That’s what you get for getting hitched so early. People speculated on the reason for my leaving. There was stigma: who leaves a secure, conventional family structure? Who risks the material and psychological well-being of four impressionable young children? What selfishness! What nerve! The other camp’s friends called me Gabriela behind my back, and warned their wives against fraternizing with me. BI.
As the years passed the struggles evolved. Expenses mounted, growing pains grew. There was less worry about schoolwork and more about the company the children were keeping. I felt I had to know their friends and make sure they don’t fall into bad company.
It was also a good time for the kids to start exploring career paths. I felt that if they found what they were meant to do for the rest of their lives, they would never be poor. They would always have reason to get up in the morning.
How we got from there to where we are now seems like a dream. The kids are now almost no longer children: they are 23, 21, near-17 and near-15. We’ve left our two-room apartment in Valenzuela and moved to a better-lit, airier home in Quezon City.
Our home seems to attract as many visitors as our old place used to do. Furniture-wise, I aim for a minimalist look although it’s not always possible. I juggle multiple jobs which when combined provide me with an income that is at least a little more than psychic.
At this stage, the kids seem to know the direction they will take.
Best part is, apart from the usual family wrinkles—mostly to do with who does which chores when and how often—we’re pretty tight-knit. We bond over Netflix and music and food. I look forward to the next phases in our lives, all while savoring the present moment and treasuring the lessons from the past.
“Na-ano?” I have a range of expletives in my mind but I know better than utter them.
***
What I described above is my story, but I know countless other stories, more compelling, more inspiring, that deserve telling.
Even if I were under a different set of circumstances, I would still accord single mothers awe and respect. Convention dictates that children be raised by two people, complementing and helping each other in building a home and ensuring their nourishment in all aspects. It’s a daunting task, raising kids, and I am sure few women set out to embrace this alone.
But life happens. We realize we made bad or hasty choices, stumble into a surprise about our partners and ourselves, or simply watch love die. This is not to say we bolt at the first opportunity. Becoming single again is a last resort, especially when there are children in the picture. But sometimes you just have to take a stand, whatever the consequences. Often, the challenges can threaten to make you give up or question your decision. But when you look at the face of your children you would know: You cannot fail.
So going back to the mindless ones who joke about the lot of single mothers—and those who laugh at these crass attempts at humor—you really should be ashamed of yourselves. You don’t know half the story, and likely don’t have a tenth of the guts.
