AnnaMaria
In Cebu City lived 82-year-old Lola María with her youngest son, Carlos, and his wife, Lina.
Lately, the couple had noticed Lola’s forgetfulness—repeating questions, misplacing items. Lina whispered one evening:
“If we get Mom to sign the deed, the house will be ours. It’ll be easy—she’s old and gullible.”
Carlos agreed:
“We’ll say it’s a medical certificate. She won’t know it’s a property transfer.”
The next day, pretending it was for a medical checkup, they took Lola to the town hall. Suspecting nothing, she signed a document transferring ownership of the house—valued at over five million pesos—to Carlos.
Back home, they told her:
“Mom, maybe you can stay with relatives for now. We’re renovating the house.”
That night, Lolo Ben, her husband, took Lola out of the house to his nephew’s home in Bohol. Carlos and Lina celebrated—they thought their scheme had succeeded.
48 Hours Later
A tricycle stopped in front of the house. Lola María stepped out wearing a Barong Tagalog blouse and hat, carrying a large bucket of bagoong—fermented shrimp paste with a pungent odor.
“Did you think I was tricked?” she said. “I’m not senile. I pretended to see how far your greed would go.”
She revealed that she had recorded their conversation and filed copies with her lawyer, the barangay, and the municipality. Then, she opened the bucket:
“This is my gift to you. Greedy people smell like this—something no soap can remove.”
Lolo Ben appeared, cane in hand:
“We don’t need your money or house. This belongs to your mother. If you want it, you’ll have to go over my dead body.”
Carlos and Lina trembled, realizing the weight of their betrayal.
The Moral Comes Full Circle
Days later, a summons arrived. At Barangay Hall, Lola María, accompanied by a lawyer and two police officers, played a recording of Lina and Carlos plotting.
The officials declared:
“This isn’t just a family matter—this is fraud and elder abuse.”
Lola María then revealed her final move: she had donated half the house to a Cebu senior care center and put the rest under her lawyer’s custody.
Carlos and Lina moved to a small apartment in Mandaue, opened a restaurant, but customers always commented:
“Why does this restaurant smell like bagoong?”
Lina cried:
“I’ve washed everything dozens of times. Why is the smell still there?”
Carlos said nothing. They understood: the smell wasn’t from bagoong—it was the lingering stench of guilt, impossible to wash away.
Meanwhile, Lola María spent her days at the senior center, smiling peacefully, saying when asked about her son:
“I may have lost a home, but I’ve regained my dignity. As for them, they’ll never sleep peacefully, haunted by the stench of their own sin.”
In the Philippines, it is said:
“Ang utang na loob ay mas mabigat kaysa ginto”—a debt of gratitude is heavier than gold.
And when a child betrays the one who gave them life, all the riches in the world carry the unstoppable scent of shame.
