Every time my wife and I went shopping during those months, I had my phone out.
Not to scroll. Not to check messages.
Calculator open.
Every item she picked up — I was doing the math. Quietly. So she wouldn’t notice. ₱85 for this. ₱120 for that. Add it up. Check the running total. Put something back if it was getting too high.
We weren’t used to this. Abroad, I never thought twice about the grocery bill. That was the whole point of working hard — so the people I loved didn’t have to count the cost of their dinner.
And now I was standing in an aisle, hiding my phone screen, silently deciding whether we could afford a brand of juice my wife liked.
Then there were the dates.
My wife would mention something — a restaurant she wanted to try, a place she’d seen on her phone, something small. And I’d watch her face light up the way it does when she gets excited about something.
And before I could stop myself, I’d glance at my phone. Check the balance. Do the math.
Sometimes I could say yes. But a lot of times — I couldn’t.
And I’d watch it happen in slow motion. The excitement in her eyes. The smile. And then — when I said “hindi muna, babe” — the way both of them would quietly fade.
She never made me feel bad about it. She was patient in a way I didn’t deserve.
But that look? That fading smile? Nadudurog ang puso ko sa tuwing nakikita ko iyon.
Here’s what I want you to understand about that moment.
Because I know you understand it — maybe better than most.
OFWs are not just workers. We are providers. Our entire identity abroad is built around one thing: being able to say yes.
Yes to the tuition. Yes to the medicine. Yes to the birthday gift. Yes to the balikbayan box. Yes to the groceries, the electricity, the roof over the heads of the people we love.