Memoir: My Grandmother, My Protector

When I think of my childhood, I think of her—my grandmother. She was my safe place in a world that sometimes felt too cruel for a child. Whenever my mother’s anger found its way to me, I would run to my grandmother’s arms, trembling and crying. She would hold me close, shielding me as if her embrace could stop all the pain. And in many ways, it did.

She was more than a grandmother; she was my protector, my comfort, and my first glimpse of unconditional love. She cared for me in quiet but powerful ways. Every time she visited our home, she never came empty-handed. Before she left, she would press a small bill into my palm, whispering, “Ayaw ipakita sa mama nimo ha,” her eyes full of love and mischief.

She knew my fondness for animals, so sometimes she would bring me a live bird—a small, fluttering gift that made me feel seen and special. I remember her smile as she handed it to me, her eyes lighting up at my joy. She had so little, yet she gave so much.

When I reached high school, she sold her pig just to buy me new clothes. I didn’t fully understand then what sacrifice meant. Only now do I realize how much she gave up for me—how she chose my happiness over her own comfort.

As the years passed, I grew older and life became heavier. When she fell sick, I wanted to give back even a fraction of what she gave me—but I couldn’t. I had nothing to offer but my presence, and even that felt too little. I watched her grow weaker, and the guilt grew stronger inside me.

Now, I often find myself wishing I could turn back time—to hug her longer, to tell her how much she meant to me, to show her the love she deserved. If only I could go back, I would make sure she knew that everything I am today is because of her.

She may be gone, but her love remains—the kind of love that never fades, the kind that built the person I’ve become.

My grandmother was my protector. My safe haven. My heart’s first home.