Good Friday, April 18 – San Agustin

This is difficult to write, but I feel I need to.

That night was incredibly painful and disorienting—not just for me, but especially for my son, Liam. And I hope, as you read this, you can try to see it through our eyes.

The day had been peaceful, even joyful. We were camping at the beach with Aljer’s family. Everyone had been kind. His cousins welcomed me and Liam. His brothers were warm. We cooked, we set up the tent, we shared food and stories. I even took photos of Aljer while he worked on the tent. We laughed over dinner. There was no conflict. No sign of what was coming.

Later in the evening, I spent time with Mohan, his little nephew, his relatives, cousins, and brothers. We played counting games. I had chocolates but Mohan couldn’t have any because of allergies, so I suggested mangoes instead. Liam joined us. We went to the cottage to wash and cut the fruit.

But as soon as we returned to the group, Aljer leaned in and said, “Gilibak ko ninyo ni Liam.” Then, “Kamo duha nakatamay mo sa ako.”

The familiar panic creeped into me. Not again. He was very softly whispering in my ears "nga nakatamay mi ni Liam and we think he is poor."

I didn’t know how to react. There had been no conversation like that. But, I have also seen this play out many times before and it was another of his episodes where he would be triggered over something so normal, usual, and almost meaningless.

So I turned to Liam and asked what we had talked about. My 12 year old kid, with special needs, simply and innocently said:

"Nagtalk ra man mi regarding sa audition nako sa SPA for high school."

But Aljer smiled maliciously at me which is a face I know for 7 mos of being with him.

He looked at Liam and me and he pointed at my face and said, “You are teaching your child to tell lies.”

And my son, who had done nothing wrong, God knows and see, looked so confused. He didn’t understand why he was being called a liar. But me, I know what was happening... he was triggered again.

It broke me. Because no child deserves that. Especially not a child who was just being himself. Especially not in front of people he barely knows.

I tried to calm things down. I gently touched Aljer’s arm, hoping to de-escalate. He pulled away and said sharply, “Don’t touch me.” I sat beside his cousins quietly, hoping it would all settle. Bern leaned in and whispered, “What just happened? Everything was fine earlier.” I didn’t know what to say.

Liam, shaken, walked away and went upstairs. His titos followed, sensing something was wrong. They found him quietly crying. Confused. Hurt. Not knowing what he did wrong.

Back at the tent, things got worse. Aljer raised his voice. He said I had shamed him. His uncle and mother tried to calm him, but he wouldn’t stop. His brother finally stepped in: “Sakto ne jer. Wala naman ka na-mao.”

But still, it escalated. He looked me in the eye and said: “Don’t play with me. Checkmate. I win.” And then: “You’re not special. I never want to marry you.” His face was purely full of disgust and anger and malice and I did not recognize the man I love. But this is not the first time it happened.

There had been no fight. No tension. No backbiting. How was it possible for me to talk to my son such topics he was accusing us of?

It was a rupture that came out of nowhere—one I couldn’t explain, not even to myself. And the false accusations didn’t stop with me. They were aimed at my child.

To accuse Liam of lying—to twist such a small, innocent moment into something shameful—was more than I could carry quietly.

I tried to hold it together. But I broke down. I cried in front of his titas. I knelt—not out of drama, but from the sheer weight of trying to protect my child while carrying the pain on my own.

And it was then they told me what I hadn’t been able to say aloud:

“We saw everything. You and Liam did nothing wrong.”

“Leave this man alone. He is broken.”

“Focus on your son. Love yourself. Save yourself.”

They had seen it. All of it. Firsthand. And I think part of me just needed someone else to witness it—to validate what my heart had already known but was too afraid to admit.

I’m sharing this not to hurt anyone. But because I need someone to understand that I tried. I really tried. And when it crossed the line to my child, I couldn’t stay silent anymore.

There’s more to say. But this is where the line was drawn.

_____________________________________________

On the evening of April 18, during what began as a peaceful and joyful family camping trip in San Agustin with Aljer’s relatives, an incident occurred that I can no longer remain silent about—for the sake of truth, and for the protection of my son.

The day had been lighthearted. We spent it bonding with his family—cooking, setting up tents, sharing meals and stories. My 12-year-old son Liam and I were treated warmly by his cousins, titas, titos, and brothers. There was no conflict or sign of distress throughout the day or during dinner.

Later in the evening, I was playing with Aljer’s young nephew and suggested eating mangoes instead of chocolates due to his allergies. My son Liam joined us, and we quietly prepared the fruit in the cottage. On our way back to the group, without provocation, Aljer leaned in and whispered to me: “Gilibak ko ninyo ni Liam.” He then said, “Kamo duha nakatamay mo sa ako.”

He accused both me and my son of mocking or shaming him—accusations that were completely false and unfounded. When I asked Liam what we had talked about, he responded sincerely that we were discussing his upcoming audition for a high school program. That was the truth. Nothing more.

Aljer then responded by accusing me of teaching my son to lie.

This moment marked a deep rupture. My son, a gentle, neurodivergent child, stood there confused and hurt. He had done nothing wrong, yet was publicly and wrongly accused. I attempted to de-escalate by reaching out to Aljer, who refused any gesture of peace and instead pulled away with hostility.

Liam, visibly shaken, walked away quietly. His titos followed him and found him crying upstairs, unable to understand why he was being blamed. Meanwhile, back at the camp area, Aljer continued escalating the situation—accusing me of shaming him in front of his relatives, which was not only untrue but deeply humiliating. Despite attempts by his uncle and mother to calm him, he persisted.

His brother eventually intervened, clearly disturbed by the unfolding scene, and told him directly: “Stop this. You’re hurting everyone here.”

Instead of stepping back, Aljer looked me in the eye and said: “Checkmate. I win.” Then, “You’re not special. I never want to marry you.”

This sequence of events did not arise from any fight, argument, or misunderstanding. It came without warning. It was directed not only at me—but, heartbreakingly, at my son. What began as a light conversation about mangoes and a high school audition became the source of cruel projections, false accusations, and emotional harm.

In the aftermath, several members of his family quietly offered their support:

“We saw everything. You and Liam did nothing wrong.”

“Leave this man alone. He is broken.”

“Focus on your son. Love yourself. Save yourself.”

Their words echoed what I had long been afraid to admit to myself. I had spent months trying to keep peace, to protect Liam, and to preserve something that, ultimately, could not hold.

This statement is not written to seek revenge or stir conflict. It is written for clarity, for dignity, and above all—for my son, who did not deserve to be involved or harmed in any way. My only intention is to tell the truth, clearly and without embellishment.

There is more to this story, but this was the moment the line was crossed. This was the night I could no longer pretend. I am choosing to protect my child, and to stand in the truth of what happened.