Chapter XLIV: Agom (Greed)
The days after Lucio's burial drift like a fog that refuses to lift. The mourning has calmed, but the whispers—oh, the whispers—still circulate like invisible winds. In the family circle, they say that when a patriarch dies, peace dies with him. And in the case of the Banggai house, peace doesn't even bother to attend the funeral.
Junior wastes no time. It's as if he's been waiting for that final breath. The moment Lucio's coffin is laid to rest in Tarlac soil, Junior rides his old motorcycle back to Guardino and parks it like a king returning to his castle. He looks up at the ancestral house with a wide grin.
"Well," he mutters, clapping his hands, "the king has come home."
Beside him, Rogie grins too, but in that subtle way that looks more like a smirk. "Just don't fall through the floorboards, 'Your Majesty.' The house might not agree with its new ruler."
"Don't worry about that," Junior says, patting the wooden post like it's a loyal soldier. "This old house knows me. We go way back."
The ancestral house, however, groans in protest, its wooden walls creaking as if saying, Not you again.
From that day on, Junior claims ownership of the entire ancestral home—the grand old house with cracked windows, rusted hinges, and a faint smell of paint and memories. Rogie doesn't fight for it; he already has his own home just a few meters away. He only takes over a few other lots once owned by their late parents, Melo and Tory. But the main house—the heart of everything—belongs to Junior now.
And that's when the trouble starts.
Meanwhile, far away in Tarlac, Lucio's children, Macoy, Mike, and Gina; sit around their father's small altar, staring at the old photograph of him smiling beside their late mother. The sadness hasn't faded yet, but curiosity begins to replace the grief.
"Do you remember," Gina starts, breaking the silence, "the dollars?"
Macoy raises an eyebrow. "What dollars?"
"The bundle Dad kept hidden," Gina says, tapping her fingers on the table. "He told me about it once, years ago, when I visited the Banggai house. Said he kept some money for 'emergency use.'"
Mike nods. "Yeah, I remember that too. He showed me a small box wrapped in old newspapers. Said it was for 'a rainy day.'"
"Well," Macoy says, leaning forward, "it's raining now. And we didn't see that box when we went through his things."
There's a pause. They look at one another with that shared suspicion only siblings can share.
"So," Gina continues, "who do you think has it?"
They don't answer immediately. But all three of them think the same name.
Junior. The only one who was living in the house, alongside Lucio when he was still alive.
The siblings waste no time. A few days later, they travel to Guardino. The journey is long, the road dusty, and the tricycle rides endless. When they finally reach the old Banggai house, they find it quiet—eerily quiet, except for the occasional bark of a dog and the flapping of a loose window shutter. No one is there, but their cousins are outside.
"Hey, long time no see!" one of them says, waving lazily.
"Long time," Mike replies, forcing a smile. "We just came to ask something."
"About Uncle Lucio," Gina adds.
The cousins glance at one another. The air shifts. It's like someone just whispered a forbidden word.
"What about him?" one cousin asks cautiously.
"Before he died," Macoy says, "he had a bundle of dollars. We're trying to find out what happened to it."
The cousins look uneasy. One of them—Arnel, the talkative one—scratches his head and says, "Ah, that... we heard something, but... you didn't hear it from me, okay?"
"Go on," Gina insists.
Arnel lowers his voice. "That night... during the first day of your father's wake, when you three were still on your way from Tarlac... Junior went into your father's room. People saw him carrying something wrapped in cloth."
Macoy's eyes narrow. "You mean to say—"
"I didn't say anything," Arnel interrupts, raising his hands. "But you know how people talk."
"Well," Mike says dryly, "people better start talking louder."
The siblings exchange looks—anger mixed with resignation. They know Junior well. They know his love for shortcuts, his skill at pretending innocence, and his uncanny ability to turn anything into his own.
They leave Guardino quietly, but their minds are loud with thoughts.
Back in Guardino, Junior wastes no time turning the ancestral home into his personal project—or disaster, depending on who you ask. He decides the house needs "a touch of modern faith."
One afternoon, armed with cheap paint and a questionable sense of aesthetics, he decides to repaint the old La Purisima statue once owned by their mother, Tory.
The result? A disaster so spectacular even the angels might weep.
The once-graceful face of the Blessed Mother now has eyes that don't quite agree on where to look. One stares upward, the other sideways, as if she's seen something horrifying and can't unsee it. The snake at her feet, once a subtle symbol of evil conquered, is now so dark and oversized that it steals all the attention.
"It looks... holy," Rogie says, trying not to laugh.
"Of course!" Junior declares proudly, stepping back to admire his work. "See? The eyes represent her divine awareness—watching all directions!"
"It looks like she's dizzy," Rogie mutters under his breath.
Junior glares. "You don't understand art."
"Neither do you," Rogie replies.
In Caluipat, Meric receives the news from her cousin Jing through the phone. She's in the middle of restocking the Bensmert Store when the call comes in.
"Hey Meric, you won't believe this," Jing says, sounding half-exasperated, half-amused. "Junior's taken over the house. Again."
Meric sighs. "Of course he did. What else is new?"
"That's not all. Do you remember Lelang's (Grandma's) La Purisima?
Meric raises an eyebrow, "Yeah, the one Lelang Tory was keeping in her room. What about it?"
"He repainted it."
Meric freezes. "He what?"
"Yeah. He turned her into... well, something unrecognizable. Rogie said it looks like a cross between a saint and a cartoon character."
Meric presses a hand to her forehead. "Oh, for heaven's sake. That statue's older than all of us combined!"
"I know," Jing says. "And the worst part? They're taking stuff from the other lots too. Like it's a shopping spree."
Meric's jaw tightens. "Unjust," she mutters.
Later that night, Meric sits in her living room, quiet. The sound of crickets fills the air. Ben sits beside her, reading the day's ledger, but his eyes drift toward her often.
"You're thinking again," he says softly.
"I can't help it," she replies. "I remember my mother and how she used to deal with Uncle Junior."
"Wasn't she close with him?"
"Yes. Too close, maybe."
Her tone changes—darker, heavier. "Junior used to borrow money from her. A lot of money. And she always helped him, even when she couldn't afford to."
Ben frowns. "That doesn't sound like a good deal."
"It wasn't. There was one time—early 2000s, I think—he owed a big amount. Mamang paid it off. But it never stopped there. He kept borrowing, over and over."
She takes a deep breath, her voice trembling slightly. "It drained her. Every peso she earned from the store, from her sales, from everything—she'd give it to him. She never said it, but I knew it broke her heart."
Ben reaches out, placing his hand on hers. "She must've loved her family a lot."
"She did," Meric says, her eyes glistening. "But sometimes love means carrying pain too heavy for one person. That's one of the burdens she carried to her grave."
The room grows quiet again. Only the sound of the electric fan hums softly in the background.
That night, after closing the store, Meric lies beside Ben. She tries to sleep, but the memories refuse to fade. Eventually, exhaustion wins. She drifts into sleep—and into a dream that feels more vivid than reality.
In her dream, she's back in Hermosa's old market. The air smells of freshly baked bread and roasted peanuts. The sun glows warmly on her skin. And beside her—alive, smiling, radiant—is her mother, Mercy.
"Mang..." Meric whispers, stunned.
Mercy laughs lightly. "Anya deta nga rupam, Mayyang? Kasla ka nakakita ti alalya! (What's with that face, Mayyang? You look like you saw a ghost!)"
Meric stifles a sob. "I—I missed you."
Mercy grins. "You always say that. Umay kan, ta inta ag-shopping ti bag. (Come on, let's go shopping for bags."
"Bags?"
"Yes! There's a sale! You think I came back from heaven for nothing?"
Meric laughs, tears mixing with laughter. They walk together to a small store filled with colorful bags—red, blue, green, pink. Mercy picks one up, pretending to check its seems like she always used to.
"See this one?" Mercy says, holding up a floral tote. "Strong, sturdy, and only two hundred! Back in my day, that could buy a week's worth of rice."
Meric giggles. "You're still the same, Mang."
"Of course I am," Mercy replies with a wink. "Just... lighter."
As they walk out of the shop, the dream starts to fade. The marketplace blurs, the laughter softens, and Mercy's face begins to shimmer like sunlight through water.
"Wait—don't go yet," Meric pleads.
Mercy smiles gently. "I'm not really leaving, Mayyang. I'm always just here." She taps Meric's chest, right over her heart. "Right here."
And then she's gone.
Meric wakes up with tears on her cheeks. Ben is still asleep beside her, his soft snoring breaking the silence. She wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and looks toward the small altar where Mercy's photo stands.
For a moment, she swears the photo smiles.
She whispers, "Thank you, Mang."
Outside, the sun rises over Caluipat, warm and golden.
Back in Banggai, Junior may have his house, Rogie may have his lots, and the dollars may be gone forever, but the memories of the old house, would be something they have cherished and are treasures of the past. It's hard work, a masterpiece built by Don Melo, and Dona Tory. However, it's beyond despair because of greed.
And somewhere in the distance, a breeze passes by the old Banggai house, fluttering the curtains through its broken windows. For a brief second, it feels as though Mercy herself is there, reminding them all that no matter who takes what, the true inheritance of a family isn't land or money.
It's love.
And love, unlike dollars, never disappears.