Maria Felicidad Cruz never imagined she’d be celebrating her 40th birthday in a tiny apartment in Riyadh, surrounded by the hum of air conditioners ad the faint aroma of spices that never quite felt like home. Back in the Philippines, birthdays were loud karaoke, pancit, children’s laughter. But here, everything was quiet.
She left the Philippines eight years ago, with nothing bus a suitcase, a few thousand pesos borrowed from neighbor, and the promise of work as a domestic helper in Saudi Arabia. Her youngest son, Daniel, was only five when she kissed him goodbye at NAIA Terminal 1. He clung to her leg, crying, while her eldest daughter, Anna, tried to be brave. Her husband, Romy, had been jobless for years after his tricycle route was replaced by a modern jeepney line.
It wasn’t an easy choice. But the unpaid bills, leaking roof, and empty pantry made the decision for her.
Her first employer was strict and unforgiving. She worked 18-hour days, seven days a week. Her phone was confiscated for the first six months. She learned to clean while biting back tears, scrubbing floors while praying silently for her children. Once, she fainted from exhaustion, and was scolded for being lazy. But she endured. She always reminded herself: this sacrifice was for her family.
The years passed, and she changed employers her second family treated her better. They allowed her phone calls and even gave her Sundays off. That’s when she began learning Arabic and took up online bookkeeping classes in her spare time. Her children were growing fast. Anna had graduated senior high school, Daniel was excelling in science, and Romy, motivated by her strength, had started selling vegetables in the local market.
Despite the distance, Maria made sure to be present in every possible way. She recorded bedtime stories for Daniel, sent videos of herself singing “Happy Birthday”, and taught Anna how to budget using Messenger voice calls. On Christmas Eve, she would wear red, cook her own little noche buena, and video call her family until the signal dropped.
There were days when homesickness hit like a typhoon. Seeing a mother kiss her child on the street, or smelling something vaguely like adobo in the market, would make her cry. But she always told herself: “Isang araw, uuwi rin ako. Hindi habangbuhay ganito.
One day, after nearly a decade abroad, Maria received an unexpected call from her daughter.
“Ma,” Anna said through happy tears, “I passed the board exam, I’m officially a licensed accountant!”
Maria broke down crying. It was the first time she truly felt the weight of her sacrifices lift even just a little.
Now, Maria is preparing for her final year abroad. She’s been saving up to open a small sari-sari store back home and help Daniel finish college. She dreams of retiring under the mango tree in their backyard, watching her grandchildren play.
Her story isn’t unique to her alone millions of OFWs share similar battles. But every OFW has a name, a family, a dream. Maria’s story is just one among many. But it is hers.
And for every night she spent under a foreign sky, she held onto one truth: love, like the sky, is shared no matter how far apart.
