The room was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels empty—but the kind that is full of unspoken memories, glances of grief, and hearts trying to stay strong. The wake of Lolit Solis wasn’t just a farewell. It was a reunion of souls who had once been guided, lifted, and sometimes even scolded by the woman who never minced her words—yet loved fiercely.

In a corner of the chapel, Paolo Contis stood still for a moment longer than most. There was no performance here. No script to follow. Just silence. Just sorrow. And when he finally stepped forward, it wasn’t to speak to the cameras or entertain the crowd—it was to speak to her.

“She believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself,” he said, his voice cracking.

The room fell even quieter.

For Paolo, Lolit Solis was never just a showbiz columnist or a manager. She was a compass. A firebrand. A second mother when the lights went off and the crowds disappeared. Their relationship spanned years—decades, even. Through career highs, controversies, and second chances, Lolit was there. Not always gentle, but always present.

Many celebrities came to pay their respects that night. Familiar faces. Famous names. They brought flowers, tears, and stories. But it was Paolo’s tribute that cut the deepest—because it wasn’t a story about fame. It was a story about being lost, and being found again.

“There was a time when I almost gave up,” Paolo confessed. “Work wasn’t coming in. People stopped believing in me. I stopped showing up.”

And then he paused, blinking away the tears.

“But she called. She told me, ‘Tanga ka ba? Bumangon ka. Galingan mo.’”

Laughter broke through the sadness—because everyone who knew Lolit could hear her voice in those words. Blunt. Brutal. And somehow, deeply loving.

“She never sugarcoated anything,” Paolo smiled faintly. “But every harsh word came from love.”

That night, as he spoke, it wasn’t just about loss—it was about legacy. The kind Lolit left not through awards or press clippings, but through lives changed. Stars she helped shape. Hearts she helped heal.

Kim Chiu was also seen at the wake, quietly lighting a candle and staying close to the family. Marian Rivera and Dingdong Dantes came hand in hand. Boy Abunda offered a silent prayer. Ai-Ai delas Alas, tears falling freely, said, “Wala na si Lolit, pero ang ingay niya, hindi mawawala.” Everyone had a memory. Everyone had a wound reopened.

But Paolo’s grief felt different. It wasn’t just respectful—it was raw. Like a son saying goodbye to a mother who never stopped fighting for him, even when others gave up.

“She called me out when I messed up. She defended me when people tore me down. And she reminded me that redemption is possible,” he said. “Even when I didn’t feel I deserved it.”

He looked up briefly, his voice soft now. “Thank you, Nay.”

The chapel lights flickered softly. The candles burned steady. And for a moment, it felt like Lolit was right there—arms crossed, eyebrow raised, muttering something like, “Drama mo naman, Paolo. Tama na ’yan.”

And yet, everyone in that room knew—she would’ve cried too. Quietly. Privately. She loved deeply, though she rarely showed it the way others did.

Lolit Solis wasn’t perfect. She knew it. She laughed about it. She even wrote about it. But what made her unforgettable wasn’t her gossip or her columns—it was her loyalty. Once she called you family, you were hers. Through mistakes. Through scandals. Through silence.

“Even when I disappointed her,” Paolo added, “she never left.”

That was the part that broke everyone.

Because in an industry known for its fleeting friendships and conditional love, Lolit Solis was consistent. Fierce. Fearless. And, to the ones who knew her best, irreplaceable.

As the night deepened, the celebrities slowly trickled out. Cameras turned off. Candles burned lower. But Paolo remained for a while longer. Sitting. Remembering. Maybe even waiting for one last scolding from the woman who changed his life.

Before he left, he whispered one final line:

“I hope I’ve made you proud.”