I was thirty-two years old the first time I walked into the Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) office in Quezon City. My folder was thick with documents—medical tests, psychological evaluations, work references, bank statements. Everything was in order, except one thing.

“Miss Santos,” the social worker said with a polite but firm smile, “your file is complete, but… you’re single.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But I have a stable job, my own house, and I’m emotionally prepared.”

She nodded sympathetically. “We understand, but married couples are given priority. It’s institutional policy.”

I walked out with my heart breaking, but I didn’t give up.

Two years later, I went back.

“Is there a chance now?” I asked hopefully. “I’ve increased my savings, my salary is better…”

The officer glanced at my file. “Have you considered foster care under our Temporary Child Care Program? Many children need homes while waiting for permanent families.”

“Temporary?” I asked.

“Yes. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. But it will allow you to show your capacity as a parent if you still wish to adopt later.”

I didn’t hesitate. I signed up.

My first child arrived on a rainy Friday. His name was Arman, eight years old, eyes filled with mistrust.

“How long do I have to stay here?” he asked quietly.

“As long as you need,” I told him. “For now, this is your home.”

Arman stayed for four months. When he left to join a permanent family, he hugged me tightly, tears running down his face.

“Can I still call you Mama Ana?” he whispered.

“Always, anak,” I answered.

Then came Sofia, a five-year-old with curly hair and a smile that lit up the whole house. We baked cookies, sang songs before bed, and she once asked me, “Why don’t you have your own children?”

I cupped her cheek and said, “Because God wanted me to wait for you.”

She stayed six months before leaving for her adoptive parents.

Years passed. Children came and went—Carlo, Valerie, Tomas, Isabel, Diego. Each departure tore a piece of my heart, yet each left me richer with love.

At forty, I tried again for adoption.

“Miss Santos,” the new director told me, “your fostering experience is admirable. It strengthens your case.”

“Does this mean I can adopt now?”

He hesitated. “The age limit is forty-five. You’re forty already. The chances are slim, but you can try.”

So I kept fostering. Two siblings arrived: Camille, twelve, and her younger brother, Samuel, six.

“You won’t separate us, right?” Camille pleaded that first night.

“Never,” I promised. “Siblings stay together.”

They stayed for two years. We celebrated birthdays, did homework, shared laughter and tears. When an adoptive family finally took them both, Camille held me close.

“You were the best mom we ever had,” she whispered.

At forty-five, I made one final attempt to adopt.

“I’m sorry,” the official said gently. “You’ve reached the age limit. You can’t apply anymore.”

I left the office knowing a door had closed forever.

But another stayed open. I continued as a foster mother—welcoming Mateo, the twins Andrea and Patricia, then Nicholas. Each one loved as if they were my own.

At fifty, my body grew tired. I retired from the program. For the first time in fifteen years, my house was empty.

Two years later, on a Saturday afternoon, the doorbell rang.

“Miss Ana?” a tall young man said when I opened it.

I froze. “Arman?”

“Yes!” He grinned wide. “I’ve been looking for you. I just wanted to say thank you. You were the first person who made me feel loved.”

We hugged, both crying. He told me he was now an engineer, with a girlfriend, and that he always remembered me.

“You know what?” he said. “I’ve kept in touch with some of the others—Sofia, Carlo, Valerie. We all talk about you with so much love.”

A month later, my house overflowed with voices again. Sofia arrived with her husband and baby. Carlo, now a doctor, came. Valerie, studying law, joined too.

“Mama Ana,” Sofia said through tears, “we want to do something special.”

“What is it, anak?”

“All of us… we want to be your official family.”

“How?” I asked, overwhelmed.

Arman pulled out papers. “We researched. Even though we’re adults now, we can start a process to make you legally our adoptive mother—if you want.”

I sat down, trembling. “You… want me to be your mother?”

“You always were,” Carlo said firmly. “This just makes it official.”

“But I can’t adopt anymore…”

Valerie smiled. “That’s why. We’re adopting you.”

I looked around my living room—at the children the system once said I couldn’t have, now grown into adults, all calling me “Mama.”

“You know what?” I said, voice breaking. “Being a mother isn’t about papers. It’s about love.”

Samuel, now twenty-three, hugged me. “Mama Ana, can we spend Christmas together? As a family?”

“As the family we always were,” I whispered.

That Christmas, my house filled with laughter, the smell of food, and the warmth of togetherness. Camille helped me in the kitchen, just like when she was little.

“You know the most beautiful part of this?” she said.

“What, anak?”

“That you never stopped being our mom, even when we had to leave. The love you gave us stayed with us forever.”

I looked out the window—at Arman playing with Sofia’s daughter, at Carlo and Valerie debating politics, at Samuel setting the table.

“Maybe the system was right,” I sighed.

“Why, Mama?” Camille asked.

“Because I wasn’t meant to adopt just one child. I was meant to be a mother to all of you, even for a while. And in the end, you chose me.”

That night, I raised my glass at dinner.

“A toast,” I said. “To families built with love, not papers. To the children who came into my home for a season, but stayed in my heart forever.”

“To Mama Ana!” they all shouted.

As I embraced them, I realized life gave me something better than what I asked for. Not just one child, but seven. Not motherhood once, but motherhood every day for fifteen years.

At fifty-two, my house was filled once again—with laughter, dreams, and love.

Because in the Philippines, just like anywhere else, some families are born of the womb, but others are born of the heart. And those are eternal.

End

For every Filipino woman who gives unconditional love, who opens her home to children in need, and who proves that true motherhood is not defined by blood or documents, but by the heart.