When Alaiza boarded her flight from Manila to Toronto, she carried two suitcases and a heart heavier than both. Inside one suitcase were thick sweaters borrowed from her cousin, a repair of sturdy boots she bought on sale, and a small pouch of dried sampaguita flowers from her mother’s garden. Inside her chest were the real belongings: her children’s drawings, her husband’s quiet encouragement, and the unspoken fear of starting over at thirty-eight.
Canada welcomed her with a winter wind that felt like a thousand tiny needles against her cheeks. Snow blanketed the streets, turning everything into a soft, white silence. Alaiza had never seen snow before except in movies. She wanted to admire it, but her thoughts were louder than the beauty outside the airport window.
She came to work as a caretaker for an elderly woman named Margaret Thompson in a quiet suburb outside Toronto. The agency had described Margaret as “independent but needing assistance.” Alaiza would later learn that independence can sometimes be a fragile thing, especially when age begins to chip away at memory and strength.
Margaret lived in modest brick house with blue shutters and a maple tree in the front yard. The first time Alaiza stepped inside, the scent of lavender and old books greeted her. Framed photographs lined the hallway weddings, birthdays, a young soldier in uniform, children with missing teeth smiling at the camera.
Margaret herself sat by the window, wrapped in a knitted blanket. Her silver hair was tied neatly in a bun, and her pale blue eyes studied Alaiza with curiosity.
“You must be Alaiza,” she said, her voice soft but steady.
“Yes, ma’am,” Alaiza replied, offering a gentle smile.
“No need for ‘ma’am.’ Call me Margaret.”
And so their story began.
The first weeks were the hardest. Alaiza struggled with the accent, sometimes nodding even when she didn’t fully understand. She woke before dawn to prepare Margaret’s breakfast oatmeal with sliced bananas, a cup of tea just the way she liked it. She helped her bathe, change clothes, take medications. She cleaned the house, shoveled snow from the walkway, and learned how to cook dishes that were foreign to her palate.
At night, when Margaret was asleep, Alaiza would sit on her narrow bed in the guest room and scroll through photos of her children back home. Her youngest had lost a tooth; her eldest had joined the school choir. Through video calls, she tried to be present in their lives, hiding her exhaustion behind cheerful words.
“Mommy is okay here,” she would say. “It’s cold, but I’m strong.”
But strength, she discovered, is not the absence of tears. Sometimes, while washing dishes, she would feel them slide silently down her face.
Margaret noticed.
One afternoon, as snow fell gently outside, Margaret called Alaiza to sit beside her.
“You miss home,” Margaret said, not as a question but as a fact.
Alaiza hesitated, then nodded.
“I used to miss my husband that way,” Margaret continued, her gaze drifting to a photograph on the mantle. “He served overseas when we were young. I learned that loving someone sometimes means being far away so they can have a better tomorrow.”
That day, something shifted between them. They were no longer just employer and employee.They became two women bound by sacrifice, separated by age but united by longing.
Spring arrived slowly, melting the snow into clear streams along the sidewalks. Alaiza began taking Margaret on short walks in the park. Cherry blossoms bloomed, and children’s laughter filled the air. Margaret would tell stories about her youth how she met her husband at a dance, how she once dreamed of becoming a painter but chose to raise her children instead.
“Do you regret it?” Alaiza once asked.
Margaret smiled gently. “Regret is a heavy coat, dear. If you wear it too long, you forget how light you can feel.”
Alaiza carried those words with her.
Months passed. Margaret’s memory began to falter more noticeably. Some mornings, she forgot what day it was. Once, she looked at Alaiza and asked, “Are you my daughter?”
Alaiza’s heart tightened, but she answered softly, “I’m Alaiza. I’m here to take care of you.”
Margaret would nod, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes confused.
Caring for someone with fading memories required patience that stretched beyond physical effort. It meant repeating answers without frustration, offering reassurance again and again. It meant becoming a steady presence when the world felt uncertain.
One winter evening, almost a year after Alaiza arrived, the sky shimmered with colors she had only seen in postcards. Margaret’s son had driven them north to visit relatives, and there, dancing across the dark sky, were the northern lights.
Green and violet waves moved like silent music above them.
Margaret gripped Alaiza’s hand. “I saw this once before, when I was a girl,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d see it again.”
Alaiza felt tears sting her eyes not from homesickness this time, but from awe.
Under that glowing sky, she realized something profound. She had come to Canada for money, for opportunity, for her children’s future. But she had also found purpose. In caring for Margaret, she was honoring her own parents back home. In easing someone’s loneliness, she was softening her own.
Years later, when Margaret peacefully passed away in her sleep, Alaiza was the one holding her hand. She whispered prayers in Filipino and English, thanking her for the stories, the lessons, the unexpected friendship.
At the funeral, Margaret’s son approached her.
“My mother loved you,” he said. “She called you her angel.”
Alaiza shook her head gently. “I was just doing my job.”
“No,” he replied. “You were family.”
Afterward, Alaiza stood outside the church, snowflakes landing softly on her coat. She though about her journey from Manila to Toronto, about the nights of quiet tears and the mornings of renewed determination. She had sent money home faithfully. Her children were growing, thriving. One day, she would return to them for good.
But for now, she remained continuing her work as a caretaker, now for another elderly client. The house was different, the routines new, but her heart was steadier.
Sometimes, on clear winter nights, she would look up at the sky, hoping to catch another glimpse of the northern lights. They reminded her that beauty often appears in the darkest hours, that distance does not diminish love, and that sacrifice can illuminate lives in ways we never expect.
Beneath the vast Canadian sky, far from the warmth of the Philippines, Alaiza stood tall. She was not just an overseas worker. She was a bridge between worlds, a quiet guardian of dignity, a woman whose courage stretched across oceans.
And thought her footsteps marked foreign snow, her heart carried the rhythm of home steady, hopeful, and unbreakable.
