Disclaimer: In Real Life is a platform for everyday people to share their experiences and voices. All articles are personal stories and do not necessarily echo In Real Life’s sentiments.
This story is about a Malaysian girl who was raised by her Filipino maid and her acknowledgement towards her as her mother figure.
I’ve always felt like a shadow in my parent’s house. My parents divorced when I was 7, and my father had left. I never saw or heard of him again. My mother remarried when I was 8, and I became an extra “thing” in their lives.
My stepfather was an absentee workaholic, and there were no other kids. My mother and I had no close relationship. She was always cold and distant to me; my only memory is of her telling me to “go play,” somewhere else.
I don’t have any warm or happy memories of my mother. It reached a point where my mother would enter the room, and I would go to another room because any interaction with her was a variation of being told to “go away.”
The Filipino maid who raised me.
“Kakak” Lillian was the one who packed my bekal for school. She helped me with my homework. She was there when puberty hit me and my period started. She attended all the Parent-Teacher conferences and sent the reports to my mother and stepfather.
My teachers had assumed that Kakak Lillian was my mother. None of them had seen my mother or stepdad since I was a Year 1 (standard 1) student.
Kakak Lillian’s family is back home in the Philippines, and I know a little about them. She talks often about her nephews and nieces, cousins, and siblings back home.
Once, I asked her whether she wanted to go home and be with her family. She smiled and admitted that she misses them, but that she’s home here. I didn’t think much of her answer, but I was a dumb 11-year-old who didn’t get what that meant back then.
A friend, confidant, and guide through life.
Teenagers don’t talk to or open up to their parents very much, but with Kakak, I could. I talked to her about everything. When I broke up with my boyfriend, she was there with Sikwate (hot chocolate) for me, Kapeng Barako (coffee) for her, and mango and sticky rice for us to share.
After sports practices that left me with aching and sore muscles, she was there with massage oil and Hilot (a traditional massage technique).
She would quietly ensure my favourite snacks were available while I studied for quizzes and tests, making me “brainfood breakfast” for my International Baccalaureate examinations.
She attended my high school graduation
The years passed, and I graduated from at my very “atas” British international school in Sri Kembangan. I was 17, turning 18 a few weeks later. My parents were indifferent.
Kakak Lilian gave me a stole to wear. I only noticed it when I was standing in line to collect my diploma and certificates that morning. As I was adjusting it, I felt something odd about the stitching. Then I realised that the stole had her name—Lilian Cruz Bautista—embroidered on it.
When they called my name, I walked across the stage, shook hands, and collected the parchments. Then I stopped in front of the photographer, and Kakak Lilian was there, watching from the front row, with a proud smile I wanted to see on my mother’s face.
I had a moment, and something very important clicked. Neither of my parents were there. But there she was my entire life: My kakak.
I entered the audience and brought her to the stage to take that family photo. She had no idea what I was planning, but went along, smiling in confusion.
I pissed off the school administrators, the Master of Ceremonies, and maybe my fellow graduates and classmates. But I didn’t care.
Cliched and melodramatic? Maybe. Necessary? Yes. As far as emotional bonds were concerned, my kakak was the only family I had.
My kakak is my real family
I attended university with a partial scholarship because of her quiet, unwavering support. She helped fill out the paperwork and other documents I needed for that scholarship. I didn’t go very far from the house: Sunway University.
Now, Kakak Lillian has grown older; she’s in her mid-40s now. She’s spent her entire life raising and looking after me. She never had children or a family of her own. Sure, she goes back to see her family a few times a year. Every year, those are the loneliest weeks of my life.
To me, family is just a word. What matters is the connection and what it motivates you to do: care, nurture, and support those you love. The family you choose, or the family that chooses you, is stronger than the one you’re born into.
Now, I am on track to graduate in 2025 and will be wearing Lilian Cruz Bautista’s—my mother’s—stole again.
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Read also: I Spent 25 Years Raising My Son, But Now I Ask Myself “Was It Worth It?”
I Spent 25 Years Raising My Son, But Now I Question, “Was It Worth It?”
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