**🌿 THE GREEN DRESS

A Novella

Chapter One – The Woman in the Market**

My name is Aling Teresa, and at fifty-eight years old, life has carved maps of both hardship and endurance across my face. I have spent nearly every dawn of the past thirty years standing behind a small wooden stall in the wet market of San Lorenzo, my hands cold from the morning air and warm from the vegetables I washed and arranged before sunrise.

My stall is no grand thing—just a table, a faded canopy, and a few crates—but it has given my son and me everything we’ve ever needed. Or at least… everything we could afford.

“Teresa! Fresh pechay today?”

“Yes, manang, still with morning dew.”

My voice always carried a smile, even on days my back burned from lifting sacks of produce. This market was my second home; the vendors were my family in ways life never allowed my own to be.

I had raised Marco—my only son—here among the scent of ginger, garlic, and earth. As a toddler, he used to nap beneath my table, curled up on a sack of rice. As a boy, he would run errands, shouting, “Vegetables! Fresh vegetables!” with all the pride a child could hold.

Now he was twenty-eight, a software engineer with a stable salary and a smile women never seemed to forget. I raised him alone after his father left—my biggest heartbreak, but also my greatest turning point.

Because I learned that a mother does not break.
She bends, she lifts, she rebuilds.

And Marco… he became the reason I woke up every dawn.

The Proposal

When Marco introduced Lara to me—a tall, elegant woman with soft eyes and the kind of grace that only came from a life of comfort—I felt my heart flutter with fear and pride.

“She’s the one, Ma,” he whispered one night as we washed dishes together. “I want to marry her.”

Marry.
The word made my chest warm.
My boy was finally building a life of his own.

Lara’s family was wealthy—old money, the kind spoken about with lowered voices and raised eyebrows. Her father owned a law firm, her mother managed charities and foreign events. Their home had chandeliers, for goodness’ sake.

But Lara never looked down on me. She hugged me every time she visited, sat on the floor beside me when I cooked, and insisted on helping wash the dishes, no matter how many times I said, “Ay, hija, your hands aren’t used to this!”

Three months before their wedding, invitations were sent, fittings scheduled, menus finalized. It seemed everything was perfect.

Everything except one thing:

I had nothing to wear.

The Green Dress

In my small wooden cabinet hung a single dress I had kept for decades. A green dress, embroidered with tiny flowers on the chest. I bought it when Marco was born, wanting something nice to wear when relatives came to see him.

It wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t new.
But it held my life.

I wore it when I carried Marco into the world. I wore it again when he graduated college, standing at the farthest bleachers because the auditorium was full but I refused to miss it.

Now, as his wedding approached, I found myself staring at that dress late at night, touching the soft fabric as memories flooded back.

Could I wear it again?
Should I?

It felt wrong, almost embarrassing. People from wealthy families would be there—socialites, executives, polished women with pearls at their throats.

What would they think of a market vendor in an old green dress?

I tried borrowing a dress from a neighbor. It looked beautiful on her, but on me… it felt like a costume. Someone else’s life.

I returned it with a smile and a polite excuse.

I would wear the green dress.

Not because it was all I had—but because it was all I was.

Wedding Day

The church glowed with morning sunlight when I arrived. White ribbons adorned every pew; roses lined the aisle, and chandeliers cast a warm glow onto the marble floor.

And there I stood, in my simple green dress—now faded, threads slightly loose.

As I walked inside, I felt eyes on me.
Some curious.
Some pitying.
Some judgmental.

“Maybe that’s the groom’s mother.”

“Poor woman… she should have bought something nicer.”

I pretended not to hear. I walked slowly, each step heavy with both pride and shame. My palms were cold. My heart trembled.

When I took a seat near the back, wanting to hide, a soft voice called out:

“Mom?”

I froze.

Lara—radiant in her wedding gown—stood before me, bouquet trembling in her hands, eyes glistening with tears.

She reached for me.

“Mom,” she whispered again, “is that the dress you wore when Marco was born?”

My throat tightened. “How did you know?”

She smiled through her tears.
“Marco told me. He said whenever he wanted to remember the depth of your love, he thought of you in that dress—holding him, protecting him through everything.”

The church fell silent.

Lara squeezed my hand. “I don’t want you to change. That dress… it’s part of Marco’s story. And mine too now.”

Then she embraced me—right there in front of everyone.

Marco approached moments later, wiping my tears with his thumb.

“Ma,” he whispered, voice cracking, “thank you for the green dress. There’s no color more beautiful than the love you’ve given me.”

And for the first time that day, I believed it.

Chapter Two – The Roots of a Mother’s Hands**

The day after the wedding, long after the last guest had gone home and the flowers had begun to droop, I returned to the market.

You would think after such a grand celebration, the world might feel different—but the market doesn’t care for chandeliers or speeches. It only knows the weight of produce, the scent of soil, and the rhythm of people searching for their daily needs.

As I set the crates of tomatoes and eggplants into place, Aling Marina—the gossip of the market since the 1970s—leaned over with raised eyebrows.

“So,” she said, slicing through the silence like a dull knife, “did you enjoy the wedding of the century?”

I chuckled softly. “Wedding of the century? You exaggerate.”

“I saw the pictures on Facebook,” she replied proudly. “The church looked like a movie set! And you—” She paused, eyes dramatic. “You wore that green dress again.”

I smiled, a little shy, a little proud. “Yes. It still fits.”

She tapped my hand gently. “And it looked beautiful, Teresa. Truly.”

There was sincerity behind her pinched face, and I felt warmth spread in my chest.

But then she leaned closer again.

“You know,” she whispered, “some women would have bought something new. Just to look… respectable.”

Respectable.
That word always stung.

It was the word Marco’s father used when he walked away.
“Look at you, Teresa. You expect me to build a respectable life with a woman who smells of onions and sits in a market stall all day?”

But life has a way of teaching you who is worth your tears.
And who is not.

I straightened my vegetables quietly. “I wore what had meaning.”

Marina blinked, her gossip engine momentarily silenced.
Then she smiled. “Yes,” she said softly. “I saw how your son looked at you in that dress. No fancy gown could buy that kind of love.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt my chest swell with pride rather than insecurity.

The Past That Shaped Us

That afternoon, as I ate lunch—rice and dried fish wrapped in banana leaf—I found myself thinking about the journey that had brought me here.

Life was not kind to me when I was younger.

I was twenty-four when my husband left. Marco was just a toddler, barely learning to walk. I remember the day as clearly as the scar on my hand from chopping firewood too quickly.

He stood at the doorway with a small bag, eyes avoiding mine.

“I met someone else,” he said bluntly.

I froze. “And Marco?”

“He’ll grow up. Kids are strong.”

That sentence…
It stayed with me longer than he ever did.

From that day on, I raised my son with the determination of a woman who had no choice. I woke up before dawn, worked long past sunset, and rested only when Marco was asleep.

And when things were hardest—when bills piled up, when I had to hide my tears behind stacks of talong and ampalaya—I always reminded myself:

I am Marco’s mother before anything else.
And mothers don’t give up.

A Visit from the Newlyweds

Two weeks after the wedding, Marco and Lara came to the market to visit. I was wiping the table when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Ma!”

I turned around and saw Marco waving enthusiastically, holding a bag of pandesal. Lara stood beside him, glowing with the happiness of a newly married woman.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” I asked.

Marco shrugged. “We missed you.”

I felt my heart melt.

Lara stepped forward, holding a small white envelope. “Mom,” she said softly, placing it in my hand, “this is not a payment. Not a favor. Just a small gift from your children.”

I hesitated. “Ay, hija—”

“Please,” she insisted. “You’ve given Marco everything. This is our turn to give back.”

Inside the envelope was a prepaid spa voucher.
A spa.
For me.

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped a bunch of spinach.

“Lara,” I chuckled, “those places are for ladies who don’t carry sacks of vegetables!”

She laughed too, shaking her head. “Mom, that’s exactly why you deserve it.”

I hugged her, touched by the thoughtfulness—something I never imagined receiving from a daughter-in-law who came from such a different world.

Marco placed a hand on my shoulder. “Ma, Lara and I talked. We want you to come live with us someday. Not now, but maybe soon. A room for you. A garden. A place to rest.”

My heart quivered.

“You’re my son,” I murmured. “Your home is not mine to invade.”

“But it’s always been yours,” he said. “Everything I have… came from your sacrifices.”

Tears welled in my eyes.
I looked up at the sky, whispering silently:
Lord, thank You for giving me a son who sees me.

The Green Dress Becomes a Story

As the weeks passed, something unexpected happened.

People at the market began talking—not about my dress being old, but about my story.

Customers would smile and say:

“Are you the mother in the green dress? The one from the wedding speech?”

“Yes, that’s me.” I would say shyly.

“You raised a good man,” they’d reply.

Some even brought their children to meet me, telling them:

“This is what it means to be a mother.”

I never sought attention.
But I felt something new—a sense of pride I had never let myself feel before.

The green dress had become a symbol.
Not of poverty.
But of love that never broke.

Seeds of New Beginnings

One evening, after closing the stall, I sat on a worn stool, massaging my aching feet. Lara called on the phone, her voice soft with excitement.

“Mom,” she said, “I have news.”

My heart paused. “What is it, hija?”

“I’m pregnant.”

The world slowed.
My breath hitched.
My vision blurred.

A grandchild.
A new life.
A new beginning.

“Mom?” she asked. “Are you still there?”

I felt tears stream down my cheeks.

“Yes, hija,” I whispered. “I’m here.
And I’m so happy.”

She laughed through her tears. “Marco wants you to decide what the baby will call you.”

I laughed too. “Oh, whatever the baby says first!”

She giggled. “We love you, Mom.”

And in that moment, sitting alone in the market at sunset with tired hands and a swelling heart, I realized:

My life—though simple, though weathered—had blossomed into something beautiful.

Marco was loved.
Lara embraced me as her own.
A grandchild was on the way.
And my green dress had become a story worth telling.

A symbol of everything I poured into the people who mattered most.

Chapter Three – Stitches of the Past**

The day after Lara announced her pregnancy, I arrived at the market with a sense of lightness I hadn’t felt in years. The sun seemed brighter, the air sweeter, the chatter of vendors more musical. Even my vegetables looked greener than usual—though maybe I was simply seeing the world through a new kind of joy.

A grandchild.
A new chapter.
A new life to love.

My steps were lighter as I arranged the bitter melon, washed the tomatoes, and trimmed leafy bunches of kangkong.

When Manong Eddie, the butcher, passed by with a grin, he called out, “Teresa! I heard you’ll be a lola soon!”

I nearly dropped a basket of onions. “News travels fast here.”

“Of course!” he laughed. “We market folk love good news—rare as it is these days.”

I smiled as customers came and went, some offering congratulations, others asking if I’d start selling baby vegetables now.

The laughter, the greetings, the teasing—it all wrapped around me like a warm shawl.

But in the rare quiet moments of the morning, my thoughts drifted to Marco as a baby.

Memories of Young Motherhood

I could still remember the weight of him in my arms—small, wrinkled, pink, eyes tightly shut as if afraid to see the world. The midwife had placed him on my chest after hours of labor, and I had cried so hard my vision blurred.

I wasn’t crying because of the pain.
I wasn’t crying because I was alone.

I cried because holding him made me realize I finally belonged somewhere.

That green dress had been new then.
Soft.
Comfortable.
Bright like a field after rain.

I wore it during the baptism when relatives crowded the church, admiring Marco’s tiny fingers. I wore it again during his first birthday when I baked a small cake that sank in the middle but still tasted sweet.

And when his father left, I wore it again—only because it was the only nice thing I owned.

I sat on the bed that night, Marco sleeping beside me, my tears falling onto the green fabric. I felt the kind of heartbreak that makes a woman feel as if she is unraveling thread by thread.

But even then, I whispered to him:

“I will raise you.
I will give you everything.
Even if I have nothing but love.”

The green dress had been with me in every victory and every heartbreak.
It had seen me at my weakest and strongest.

Now, as a grandmother-to-be, I realized it was more than just a garment.
It was a witness.

Lara’s Visit to the Market

Around noon, I noticed a familiar figure weaving through the stalls—tall, graceful, moving with the softness of someone unused to crowded places.

“Lara?” I called out.

She turned, smiling. She wore a simple sundress and held a basket—not the kind for groceries, but something delicate, handwoven, almost too beautiful for the dirt and noise of the market.

“Mom,” she greeted, hugging me immediately.

The vendors around us suddenly straightened, whispering.

“Ay, that’s the doctor’s daughter-in-law!”
“She’s so pretty!”
“Is that the one who called her Mom at the wedding?”

Lara didn’t seem affected by the attention. She looked around the market with genuine curiosity.

“I wanted to visit your world,” she told me. “Can I help today?”

I laughed. “Help? Here? Are you sure?”

She nodded eagerly.

And so, for the next hour, the daughter of a wealthy family sat beside me on a plastic stool, fanning herself with a banana leaf while sorting through tomatoes.

Customers stared.
Some whispered.
Some smiled.

But Lara didn’t mind. She asked me about each vegetable, each vendor, each story behind every little detail of the market. She listened when I explained how to tell if a squash was sweet or if an okra was too fibrous.

At one point, she rested a hand on her belly—still flat, but full of promise.

“Mom,” she said softly, “I want our child to know this place. To know where Marco came from. To know the strength that raised him.”

I felt a lump in my throat.
Her sincerity was disarming.

“You’re always welcome here, hija,” I whispered. “This place… it made me who I am.”

She nodded. “And you made Marco who he is. That’s something I want our child to feel proud of.”

For a moment, surrounded by the smell of garlic and the cries of vendors selling fish, I imagined holding my grandchild for the first time.

A small hand.
New eyes.
A life that would carry our stories forward.

The Pain Beneath the Joy

When Lara left that afternoon, promising to bring Marco next time, I remained seated for a while. The joy was real, yet beneath it was something else—something I had buried deep.

Fear.

Not for myself.
Not even for the baby.

But for what I might become.

I was getting older. The aches in my back lasted longer. My hands, once strong and steady, trembled when lifting heavy crates. My stamina wasn’t what it used to be.

What would happen when Marco no longer needed me?

Would I still fit into their growing, modern world?
Or would I become a mother left behind?

I closed my eyes and whispered,
“No. Stop thinking like that.”

Because a mother’s role never ends.
It simply changes shape.

And if there was one thing life taught me, it was how to bend without breaking.

A Letter From the Past

That evening, when I returned home from the market, I found an envelope slipped under my door. No name. No address.

I opened it slowly.

Inside was a single sheet of paper written in a familiar, uneven hand.

Teresa,
I heard Marco got married.
I’m sorry I wasn’t a better man.
I wanted to congratulate you.
—Angelo

My breath froze.

Angelo.
Marco’s father.

The man who left without looking back.

My hand trembled slightly, the green dress hanging quietly in the corner—almost as if watching me read the letter.

Why now?
After decades?
After pain I had carefully stitched closed?

And why did my heart feel like it was being asked to reopen a wound it had spent years healing over?

I folded the letter gently and placed it beneath the green dress, feeling the weight of memory settle like dust.

Tomorrow, I would tell Marco.
He deserved to know.

But tonight…
Tonight I let myself sit in the quiet and breathe through the ghosts that had suddenly come knocking again.

Chapter Four – The Ghost at the Door**

For hours that night, I sat in my small room with only the hum of the electric fan and the faint chirping of crickets outside my window. The letter from Angelo lay folded on the table, its presence heavier than the thin paper it was written on.

I should have felt anger.
I should have felt nothing.

But instead, I felt a slow, painful stirring—like a bruise I thought had healed but still hurt when pressed.

Outside, the moon cast a silver path on the wooden floorboards. I ran my fingers along the edge of the green dress hanging by the cabinet, touching the fabric that had witnessed my life unravel and rebuild.

I whispered to myself, “You survived, Teresa. You survived everything.”

But my voice wavered.

The past has a way of sneaking back through the cracks you thought you’d sealed.

Breakfast Tension

The next morning, Marco and Lara arrived at my house with freshly baked pandesal and a tub of her homemade pineapple jam.

“Ma!” Marco called out. “Open up, we brought breakfast!”

I wiped my eyes quickly and forced a smile before opening the door.

Marco stepped inside and immediately hugged me, noticing the slight puffiness around my eyes.

“Ma, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said—too quickly.

Lara exchanged a glance with Marco, worry etched between her brows. “Mom… you look tired.”

“Tired lang. Long day at the market yesterday,” I lied, busying myself with plates and spreading jam to avoid their eyes.

We ate together, laughter coming more from them than from me. I listened to Lara tell a story about her officemate fainting after seeing a rat near the elevator. Marco nearly choked on his coffee, laughing.

But inside, I felt distant—like I was watching my life from the outside, unable to step in fully.

When Marco reached for the jar of jam, something slipped from my cabinet—a folded piece of paper landing on the floor.

The letter.

Before I could react, Lara bent down and picked it up.

“Mom? What’s this?”

My heart thudded painfully.

Marco took it gently from her hands and read the name.

His expression changed instantly—shock, confusion, then a tightening of the jaw I hadn’t seen in years.

“Angelo?” Marco whispered. “Dad?”

I tried to form words, but none came.
The silence in the room grew thick, pressing on us.

Marco unfolded the letter with trembling fingers.

He read it once.
Then again.
Then lowered it onto the table with a shaky breath.

Lara reached for his hand. “Love, are you okay?”

Marco didn’t speak immediately. He stared at the table as if searching for a truth buried beneath the wood.

Finally, he looked at me.

“Why… why now, Ma?”

“I—I don’t know,” I whispered. “He left the letter under my door. I only saw it last night.”

Marco stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“He wants to talk to you again? After everything he did? After disappearing for decades?”

His anger wasn’t loud.
It was quiet—worse, because of how deeply it came from his bones.

“Marco,” I murmured, “I’m not planning to talk to him. I don’t want anything from him.”

“Then why did he write?” Marco’s voice cracked. “Why now? Because I’m married? Because he feels guilty? Or because he wants something?”

Lara gently squeezed his arm. “Love, sit down. Let’s talk calmly.”

He didn’t sit.
He paced, running a hand through his hair the way he always did when overwhelmed.

“Dad left us,” he whispered harshly. “He left you, Ma. He left when you had nothing. He never helped. Never called. Never cared.”

His fists clenched.

“And now—now he wants to come back like some ghost knocking on our door?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.
Seeing Marco angry hurt more than the letter itself.

Finally, he stopped pacing and faced me, eyes shining—not with hatred but with pain.

“Ma… what do you want to do?”

I breathed slowly.

“I want nothing from him,” I said. “I don’t need him back in my life. I built our world without him. You did too. But I needed to tell you because… you deserve to know.”

Marco’s shoulders sagged, and he came to sit beside me.
When he held my hands, they trembled slightly.

“Ma,” he whispered, “you raised me better than this man ever could have. You don’t owe him anything. Not forgiveness. Not attention. Nothing.”

Lara nodded softly. “Mom, Marco’s right.”

I looked at my son—the boy I raised in sweat and humility, the man he had become—and felt the sting of tears.

“I know,” I whispered. “But part of me still aches when the past knocks suddenly. Even if I don’t want it back.”

Marco embraced me tightly.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he murmured. “We’re here now. Lara and I. We’ll face this together.”

Lara hugged me from the other side, grounding us in warmth and safety.

For a moment, I let myself lean into them.
Let myself be held.
Let myself be vulnerable.

The letter lay on the table, silent but heavy.

But my son’s arms around me felt stronger than any ghost from the past.

A Decision

Later that afternoon, after they left, I sat again with the letter.

I read it once more.
And for the first time, it felt lighter—not because the pain was gone, but because I was no longer carrying it alone.

I folded it carefully and placed it back under the green dress.

Then I whispered, with steady resolve:

“This will not define me. Not anymore.”

Outside, the sun dipped low, bathing the room in soft amber light.
A new chapter was beginning—and this time, I wasn’t walking alone.

Chapter Five – When Old Wounds Stir**

The following days passed quietly, but not peacefully.

I worked in the market as usual, selling vegetables with my practiced smile, greeting every familiar face with warmth.

But in the pockets of silence—between customers, during the slow afternoons, while weighing ginger or tying plastic bags—my mind drifted back to Angelo’s letter.

It wasn’t longing.
Not love.
Just… unease.

Because men who vanish for decades do not return without a reason.
And reasons from ghosts often cost something.

Marco’s Restlessness

Marco began visiting me almost every day, sometimes even during his lunch break.

One afternoon, he appeared still wearing his office ID and holding two bags of groceries.

“Ma, I brought you fruit.”

I laughed. “Ay, Marco, you know I sell fruit!”

He shrugged. “Then… I brought you fruit to support your competition.”

We shared a laugh, but I could see the tension behind his smile.

“Is this about the letter?” I asked gently.

He paused.
Then nodded.

“Ma… he didn’t just hurt you. He hurt me too. I didn’t realize how much until now.”

He sank onto one of my small stools and rested his elbows on his knees.

“I used to wonder what it would’ve been like to have a father,” he admitted. “To have someone teach me how to shave, how to play basketball, how to be a man. But he chose to leave. He chose to give up that role.”

I wiped my hands on my apron and sat beside him.

“Hijo… you became a good man without him. You are proof that fathers aren’t always the ones who shape their children.”

He looked at me—soft but fierce.

“You shaped me, Ma.”

His words wrapped around my heart like a warm blanket.

But beneath that warmth, there was a tremor.
Because Marco had also inherited my wounds—and now those wounds were bleeding again because Angelo had reappeared.

A Visit from the Past

Three days later, as I was closing my stall, I was packing up the last of the eggplants when a shadow fell across my table.

A familiar voice—older, rougher, uncertain—said quietly:

“Teresa?”

I froze.

My breath caught in my chest.

Slowly, I turned.

And there he was.

Angelo.

Older.
Hair streaked with gray.
Lines deeper on his face.
The confident smirk he once wore now replaced with a hesitant, apologetic expression.

He stood a few feet away, hands shoved into worn pockets, shoulders slumped as if carrying the weight of years he could not erase.

For a moment, I felt the world tilt.
All the memories—good and bad—crashed like waves.

“An… Angelo,” I managed to say.

He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I steadied my voice. “Why are you here?”

His eyes flickered with regret. “To see you. To explain.”

“I don’t need explanations,” I replied firmly. “You left. That was explanation enough.”

He winced.

“I know I hurt you. I was selfish. Immature. Confused.”

“You were a grown man,” I snapped quietly. “You weren’t a child.”

He nodded slowly. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

The words hung between us—too late, too heavy, too insufficient.

I felt no satisfaction hearing them.
Only the dull ache of a story reopening.

“Teresa…” He took a step closer. “I want to see Marco.”

At that, something inside me snapped.
Not loudly—just a sharp, cold break of old bone.

“No,” I said immediately. “You don’t get to walk back into his life whenever you feel guilty.”

His eyes pleaded. “Please. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just… I want to see the son I abandoned.”

“You lost that right years ago.”
My voice trembled with anger and pain.

He lowered his gaze, defeated.

“I’m sick,” he whispered.

The words sliced through me.

“Sick?” I echoed.

He nodded. “Stage three colon cancer. The doctors say… I have less than a year.”

My knees weakened. The ground beneath me felt unsteady.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I don’t want to die without facing my sins,” he said. “Without at least trying to mend what I broke.”

My throat tightened.
My heart warred with itself—compassion battling years of betrayal.

“I’m not asking for you to take care of me,” Angelo continued. “I only want to see my son. One time. Even from a distance. Just to know… to know he became someone better than me.”

Tears blurred my vision.
Not for him—but for Marco, for the storm this would bring.

“I need time,” I whispered.

Angelo nodded.
Then walked away—slowly, painfully—leaving behind a silence filled with twenty years of unspoken words.