Before the skyscrapers of Hong Kong towered above her, and before the rush of city life became her daily rhythm, Liza Malabanan lived a peaceful but financially unstable life in the quiet province of Quezon. She was a mother of three, a loving daughter, and a devoted wife. Her husband worked as a tricycle driver, earning enough only for daily food and occasional school needs. But with bills piling up and her children growing quickly, the little income they had was no longer enough.
Liza often found herself staring at her children while they slept, wondering how she could give them more more security, more opportunity, more hope. When her cousin who worked in Hong Kong suggested she apply as a housekeeper, her heart wavered. She had never been away from her children for more than a day. The thought of leaving them, even temporarily, felt like tearing a piece of herself away.
But as she watched their worn-out notebooks and the nearly empty pantry, she made the hardest decision of her life.
“Para sa inyo ‘to,” she whispered as she kissed her children goodbye at the airport.
When Liza arrived in Hong Kong, she was overwhelmed by the fast-paced movement of people, the crowded trains, and the unfamiliar sounds of Cantonese. Her employer, Mrs. Chan, lived in a high-rise building overlooking Victoria Harbour. The apartment was spotless and modern different from the simple bahay kubo she grew up in.
Her duties were clear:
- Clean the apartment daily
- Cook basic meals
- Take care of an elderly grandmother
- Do groceries and laundry
But understanding instructions was difficult. Mrs. Chan spoke very little English, and Liza knew no Cantonese except for “mh goi” and “dojeh”. She relied on hand gestures, Google Translate, and her determination to learn.
Every night, she studied basic Cantonese phrases, practicing in front of a mirror until her tongue grew used to the unfamiliar sounds. Slowly, she learned to communicate with the grandmother, who enjoyed telling stories that Liza only half understood but fully listened to.
The hardest part was not the work it was the loneliness.
During her first month, Liza cried silently each night. She missed her children’s laughter, her husband’s comforting presence, and even the sound of chickens wandering outside their home. On her days off, she wandered around Central or Mong Kok, watching OFWs laughing together in parks, sharing food, stories, and karaoke songs. But Liza stayed distant at first, too shy to join them.
One Sunday, she gathered the courage to sit with a group of Filipinas who invited her to share their adobo and pancit. That simple act of kindness became a turning point. It was the first time she felt seen, the first time she laughed since leaving home.
Her new friends told her:
“Laban lang, sis. Para ‘to sa pamilya natin.”
And she held those words close to her heart.
Working as a housekeeper meant long hours and little rest. There were times when the grandmother became difficult, refusing to eat or acting stubborn due to her age. Liza learned to stay patient, using gentle words and warm smiles.
One winter morning, while walking to the market, Liza slipped on a wet pavement and bruised her knee badly. She limped back to the apartment, but instead of sympathy, Mrs. Chan scolded her for being careless.
The words stung, but Liza swallowed her pride. She cleaned, cooked, and completed her tasks despite the pain. That night, she cried not from the injury, but from feeling unappreciated.
Yet she reminded herself: I came her for my children, I can’t give up.
Over time, Mrs. Chan began to notice Liza’s consistency and dedication. The grandmother, who rarely smiled, began laughing more whenever Liza told her stories about the Philippines. Liza learned to cook Chinese dishes, earning compliments from the family.
One evening, after Liza served dinner, Mrs. Chan said, “Good job,” for the first time. Two simple words but they lifted a weight from her heart.
She also started earning the trust of fellow OFWs, who often sought her help in finding work, managing homesickness, and sending money through remittance centers. Among them, she became known as Ate Liza, the one who always had encouraging words.
With her earnings, Liza paid off debts, bought her children new school uniforms, and eventually saved enough to start renovating their home. her children’s grades improved, her husband’s tricycle was repaired, and for the first time in years, they had a small emergency fund.
Every Sunday video call like a reward a reminder that her sacrifices were not in vain.
Her youngest would always say, “Ma, uwi ka na. Miss na kita.” And each time, her heart break a little.
But she knew she had to stay strong for them.
After four years, Liza became more confident, fluent in basic Cantonese, and deeply trusted by her employers. They renewed her contract, and she received a small salary increase.
On her fifth year, she finally achieved her dream bringing her husband and children to visit Hong Kong for the first time. She toured them around the city, proudly showing them the placed she once cried alone in, now filled with her strength and resilience.
Her children hugged her tightly at the airport before returning home.
“Mama, proud kami sa’yo.” her eldest said.
And in that moment, Liza felt every sacrifice melt away.
