Name: Carl Danielle Basco

Grade and Section: 12-HUMSS-B

IF THERE IS A SHADOW, THEN THERE MUST BE LIGHT

As I wonder about the mystery of life, I often ask myself, “Why must we inhabit a
world burdened with hate, chaos, deception, and uncertainty? Is existence merely
suffering?” These questions have lingered in my mind since my earliest days, whispered
in the quiet moments when the first light of dawn stretched toward the horizon.

In a delivery room meant to welcome life, a woman fought her own silent battles.
Her fingers clenched the foam beneath her, knuckles white with strain. Exhaustion
rimmed her eyes, yet they burned—not with defeat, but with fire, a fire of hope that
paved my way into this world.

It was August, a time when daylight seemed fleeting, swallowed by the creeping
void of darkness. And in that moment, from pain came life. A fragile existence, gasping
in the dim glow of an unforgiving world. That existence was me—a wandering traveler
thrust into a world already stained with its sorrows.

My arrival was both a blessing and a curse. Peace and love filled my parents’
lives before I was born. But when I arrived, everything turned into chaos. Words were
sharper than knives, piercing every corner of our home. The house became as loud as
war, all because of me, a helpless little traveler who could not even sustain himself.
My parents could no longer understand each other. There was no peace, no
silence, just an unending battle of reasons. Every argument started with how and when,
as if love had been replaced by vengeance. And in the midst of it all, my existence
became the wedge that shattered their bond.
 My father—he was a man who could bring a smile to any face. He was known for
his friendliness, but he was too friendly. His laughter was loud and carefree, echoing for
miles, as if life had no problems. Arguing with him was pointless—like talking to a wall.
But unlike a wall, he had a response for everything. He reasoned, not with logic, but
with stubbornness, twisting words to fit his truth. In his mind, he was always right. His
excuses were always valid. And no matter how wrong he was, he never saw it.
And then there was my mother. She was brave—too brave. She carried the
strength of both a mother and a father. Her determination burned in her heart, a fire that
refused to die. She worked tirelessly, even while carrying me in her belly. While my
father laughed with his friends, she fought to survive.
She kept pleading, reasoning, trying to make him understand—to work, to stand
beside her, to help raise me. But nothing ever got through to him. It was as if they spoke
different languages, lived in different worlds. No matter how hard she tried, they could
never see eye to eye.
She grew up in a house filled with rage, where her parents fought like wild
animals. Pain was all she knew. And because of what she saw, she vowed never to be
weak. She was determined to stand, to survive, to give me the life she never had.
But in the end, I inherited her suffering. The cycle repeated. The hell she once
escaped had returned. The house filled with shouts and war once more. And this time, it
was not my mother who endured in silence—she was the one who fought. Their love
became a battlefield.
After an endless argument, “You are like a child! You cannot even provide for
your own son!” she shouted. And then more words followed, spilling from her like a
volcano erupting. Years of frustration, exhaustion, and unspoken pain finally broke free.
She was tired—tired of carrying everything alone, tired of a husband who laughed while
she lived in torment.
Then came the words that changed everything. ”Let us end this.” She could not
accept him anymore, and she could not endure the endless laughter while she struggled
to survive. My father’s face hardened. For the first time, there was no laughter—only
silence and anger. His hands were clenched tightly, and his jaws were gritted.
”Remember this! I will show you that you are wrong!” he said, his voice sharp, his
eyes burning with determination. His fists clenched, as if holding onto a newfound sense
of pride.
”Then show it! Show it to me! Show it to your son!” my mother cried, tears
streaming down her face.
 And then, silence. No more arguments. No more war. No more debate. Because
my father was gone. I was left with my mother. At least, that is what I thought. As I
grew, I became a reflection of him. Almost identical. Everyone who knew my father
would say the same thing—”You look just like him.” My mother’s features were absent
in me. From head to toe, I was my father’s son. And that terrified her.
”Do not be like him! Do not do this, do that!” Those words followed me
everywhere. Almost every day, I heard them.
It made me feel as if my father was nothing but a failure. As if he was as
worthless as trash. I was always compared to him, not because I had done anything
wrong, but because of my mother’s fear. And I understood. I truly did. Because as I
grew older, I learned to understand. My mind became a collection of explanations, a
lifetime of ”don’ts.” I saw, piece by piece, why my parents could never see eye to eye.
And for a long time, I hated my father for what he had done to my mother—for
abandoning her, for acting like a child while she suffered, for causing her so much
stress that even her hair began to fall out. I hated him. Because I could only see one
side of the story. I was not ready to understand him yet. And then I grew even more.
I kept hearing the same words from my mother’s side—”You are more than your
father. You are better than him. You are more mature.” She held onto the belief that if
she was not there to guide me, I would inevitably become like him. She watched me
closely, correcting every step, every choice, as if afraid that even the smallest misstep
would turn me into the man she once loved—but could no longer accept.
But then, my dad came back. He returned with the proof of his efforts—his smile
wide, his arms full of food and toys, his worker ID swinging around his neck like a badge
of redemption. He stood there, proud, as if saying, ”Look, I did it.”
But what struck me most was not the gifts or the ID—it was his eyes. They were
not filled with arrogance or carelessness this time. They were happy, because of me.
But I was hesitant about the time that I lost with him, the unfamiliar presence of a father.
I did not know what to think or how to act when he was near me. The only thing in my
head was that he’s my father.
And for the first time, I started to question everything I believed about him. Yes,
he was still stubborn, still carried that air of pride. But he had come back for me. He had
proven his point. At first, my mother was hesitant. But in the end, her logic won over her
emotions. ”I have no right to stop you from seeing your father,” she said. ”Without him,
you would not exist.” I nodded. ”I understand, Mom.”
She gave me a small, relieved smile. But then her face began to lose its smile,
and her eyes focused on me. ”But do understand this—I can never reconcile with your
father. You know we will never see eye to eye, right?” Her words hung in the air, heavy
with finality. But that was exactly what I expected. I knew what she would say, how she
felt, what she liked—because I had been with her all my life. I understood her, just as
she understood me.
I may have the appearance of my father, but I gained the mentality of my mother.
Time flew, and somewhere along the way, I almost forgot what hate felt like. My dad
worked tirelessly, sweat dripping from his forehead, his back aching—but he tried. He
was no longer the man who laughed away his responsibilities. He was a man who
wanted to make up for lost time. And for a while, things felt… okay.
But then, chaos returned. This time, it was not about survival. It was not about
providing. It was a battle for me. My parents, once divided by anger, were now fighting
for something else—my attention, my loyalty. My mother feared that if I spent too much
time with my father and his side of the family, I would be swayed. That I would forget
everything she had done for me. That I would become his son, rather than hers. She
could not let go.
Then one day, my father came to visit, as he always did. Arms full, carrying
everything he could to make me happy. But this time, my mother refused to let me go.
She knew that visiting him meant going to his house, his territory—where his voice
would shape my thoughts, where his family would tell me their side of the story. She
was afraid of what I would hear. And then, it happened. My father grabbed my arm, his
grip firm but not forceful, silently pleading for time with me. My mother did the same,
pulling me back, holding on as if letting go meant losing me forever.
In that moment, I was not just their son. I was the prize, the meaning of their
lives, the source of their happiness and existence. But then I realized something. I was
not just a prize to be won. I was the bridge between two worlds. I understood them both.
I knew them, I loved them, and I accepted them for who they were—flawed, imperfect—
but still my parents.
I looked at my father and thought, That is just who he is. His laughter makes him
my father. He may have left before, but he came back. He tried. He worked. He
provided. He stayed.
I looked at my mother, her temper burning like fire, and I understood. She carried
more pain than I ever could. Her fierce love and unyielding strength were her way of
protecting me, of giving me the life she never had. She was never weak, never absent.
No matter how hard things got, she stood by me.
Both my father and mother had their ways of loving me, and both had their
purposes in my life. Yes, hate, pride, and vengeance still lingered between them. But I
became the mediator, the one who saw with both their eyes. I the bridge that connects
their broken pieces. And despite their separation, they were both still with me, trying
their best as my mother and my father.
” I have always been loved, even before I was born. God gave me this life not to
suffer, but to show me what love truly is. My parents are not perfect, but they did their
best. I exist because of their chaos—and because of their love.” I said to myself.
I have learned not to dwell in the shadows but to face the light ahead. It all
depends on where I choose to look, what questions I dare to ask.
I did ask the right questions, “Why must we inhabit a world burdened with hate,
chaos, deception, and uncertainty? Is existence merely suffering?” But asking that
question meant looking into shadows. Answering it meant turning toward the light. And
now, the answer is clear. We struggle to understand comfort. We are uncertain because
we seek the truth. Lies exist, but truth will always prevail. Chaos surrounds us, but it
teaches us to cherish peace. Life is not meant for suffering alone. We endure pain so
that we may find love, the very purpose of our existence.

-THE END