In Cebu City lived 82-year-old Lola Maria, a kind elderly woman who shared her modest home with her youngest son Carlos and his wife Lina. Life was peaceful—until greed crept in.
Recently, Carlos and Lina noticed Lola had become forgetful. Sometimes she repeated questions, sometimes she misplaced her things. To them, this forgetfulness seemed like an opportunity.
One quiet evening, while they sat on the terrace, Lina whispered:
“If we get Mom to sign the deed, the house will be ours. She won’t even notice. We’ll just tell her it’s a medical form.”
Carlos nodded. The plan was set.
The Deception
The next day, they took Lola to the town hall, pretending it was for a “medical checkup” and some “papers that needed notarizing.”
In reality, the document transferred ownership of the house—worth over five million pesos—to Carlos’s name.
Trusting her son completely, Lola signed the paper.
When they returned home, Lina smiled sweetly and said,
“Mom, maybe you should stay with relatives for now. We’ll renovate the house and make it more beautiful.”
Lola stayed silent. Her husband, Lolo Ben, however, was furious. That same night, he packed a small bag, took Lola’s hand, and they left to stay with a relative in Bohol.
Two Days Later
While Carlos and Lina were busy planning their “renovations,” a tricycle stopped in front of the gate.
Out stepped Lola Maria—dressed neatly in a Barong Tagalog blouse and hat, carrying a large bucket that gave off a strong, unmistakable odor.
She walked calmly toward the house.
“Did you think I was fooled?” she said quietly. “I only pretended to be forgetful—to see how far your greed would go.”
Lina froze.
“I recorded everything. The conversation, the signing, everything. My lawyer, the barangay, and the municipality all have copies.”
She lifted the lid of the bucket, and the smell of bagoong—fermented shrimp paste—filled the air.
“This is my gift to you. Because greed has a smell that no soap can wash away.”
Just then, Lolo Ben appeared beside her, his cane tapping the ground.
“You can take many things from us,” he said firmly, “but not our dignity. This house belongs to your mother—and it will stay that way.”
Carlos trembled. “Ma… we didn’t mean to—”
But Lola interrupted, her voice steady:
“Ungrateful children carry the stench of shame forever. You can hide it with perfume, but your conscience will always betray you.”
Neighbors began to gather, whispering as the heavy scent filled the air—a smell that, from that day forward, became a symbol of their guilt.
The Curse That Wouldn’t Leave
Carlos and Lina scrubbed the yard for hours, trying to get rid of the smell. But even after cleaning everything, it still lingered.
That night, Carlos woke up to faint whispers near the gate. When he went outside, he found a small plastic bag hanging from it.
Inside was a fresh jar of bagoong—and a handwritten note:
“Those who live in lies carry the stench not on their skin, but in their hearts.”
Lina burst into tears. “Maybe your mother sent someone to scare us!”
But Carlos shouted, “She’s 82! She can’t do that!” Yet deep inside, he was terrified.
Justice Arrives
Three days later, they received a summons from Barangay Hall.
When they arrived, Lola was already there—with her lawyer and two police officers.
Her lawyer played a recording:
“She’s senile, just sign here…”
“After the sale, we’ll divide the money and kick her out.”
The barangay official looked furious.
“This isn’t just a family matter—it’s fraud and elder abuse.”
Carlos turned pale. Lina couldn’t stop crying.
Lola looked at them both and said softly:
“I don’t want to see my son in jail. But remember, when you do wrong, you lose more than money—you lose your conscience.”
Then she added:
“I’ve donated half of this house to the Cebu Senior Care Center. The rest is now in legal trust. No one will touch it again.”
The Price of Betrayal
Carlos and Lina left the house and rented a small apartment in Mandaue. They opened a restaurant, but soon customers started complaining.
“Why does it smell like bagoong in here?” they’d ask.
Lina scrubbed the walls, the tables, even the floor. Yet the smell never left.
Carlos said nothing. He knew it wasn’t the real scent of shrimp paste—it was the odor of guilt, the kind that lingers deep inside when you betray someone who once loved you unconditionally.
A Peaceful Ending
As for Lola Maria, she lived her final years at the senior center she had helped fund. Every afternoon, she brewed coffee, read books, and smiled peacefully.
When someone asked if she missed her son, she would simply reply:
“I may have lost a home, but I regained my dignity. They, however, will never sleep peacefully again.”
In the Philippines, there’s a saying:
“Ang utang na loob ay mas mabigat kaysa ginto.”
A debt of gratitude weighs more than gold.
And those who betray it? They will carry the stench of shame forever—just like the lingering scent of Lola Maria’s bagoong.
