Part 1: The Debt We Couldn't Pay

My name is Natasha Cruz. They call me "Tasha" or "Tasya" for short. We live in an rural area here in Negros, Philippines—just in case someone from another country is reading this. I'm 35 now and living a happy life in Canada. I want to settle here for good, avoiding everyone I knew before—even my family, who ruined my whole life. I'm still living with a scar, a trauma from the past that continues to haunt me.

Back when I was 13 is where the memories started. I was working as a helper in one of the rich families in our province. They had cars, a huge house, and wide lands of sugarcane farms.

Before I worked there, I was already carrying a heavy burden as the eldest daughter of a very poor family. We were 13 siblings—3 girls and 10 boys—so you can imagine the ages of the younger ones and the weight of responsibility I carried. I had to work and sell anything that could feed us. My father was a farmer, and my mother was bedridden. She suffered severe complications after giving birth to the 13th child, our youngest.

One day, while feeding the cows in the fields, I didn't notice that they had eaten a huge portion of newly planted sugarcane. I knew we were in trouble when the "kabo" saw that it was our cows who had done the damage.

I was told that we would be jailed within 24 hours if we couldn't pay ten thousand pesos for the damage, which was an impossible amount. At that time, we could barely earn five pesos from selling kangkong. Selling all our cows might not even cover it, and without them, my family would have nothing. Jail meant death for my mother and siblings after only a few days without support.

I had no choice but to find a way to speak to the haciendero, the landowner. It was terrifying because we weren't even allowed to look at them directly when they visited; we had to bow until they passed. But I needed courage—to save our cows and my family. I asked the kabo, one of the trusted overseers, if he could bring me to the owner so I could ask forgiveness.

"Forgiveness? Are you out of your mind?" he laughed.

Then his expression changed, as if something evil had crossed his mind. He smiled at me and asked, "How old are you?"

"Thirteen," I replied.

"Hmm. Okay... in one condition."

In my innocence, I asked, "What?"

He suddenly grabbed my hand and pressed it against his pants. I felt something strange.

"You feel that?" he asked.

At that moment, my heart pounded fast. I didn't understand, but I knew it wasn't normal. I wanted to cry or run. My legs trembled, my body froze, but I couldn't break free.

He lowered his pants and forced my hand on him. It was something I had only seen with my brothers as a child, but his was enormous. He moved my hand against it as I tried to resist. It was warm, becoming hotter, and I didn't know what he wanted—but I knew it was wrong.

Suddenly—beep, beep!—a Mercedes Benz approached. He panicked, quickly fixing his clothes. Then his face twisted with anger. "Go! Talk to the boss. Otherwise, you and your father will be in jail tonight."

The car stopped near the road where it couldn't go further. The kabo ordered me to show myself, warning me not to say a word about what had happened. He hid in the fields while I walked forward, shaking from both the assault and the fear of facing Don Rafael.

People said Don Rafael was brutal. His family was rumored to be behind the disappearances of farmers in our province. The Monte Carlos family owned nearly half of Negros and had properties across the Philippines. Don Rafael, the eldest son of Don Napoleon, was in his 30s and held full control of their empire.

I walked with my head bowed. My feet were muddy with carabao dung, so I stopped to wash them in a puddle.

"Hey! Stop that. Why are you playing in the dirt?" a voice called out.

"You're not a kid anymore."

At 13, my height and features made me look much older—closer to 18. With my mother's Hispanic beauty, people often claimed we had Spanish blood.

"Are you deaf? Look at me!" the voice commanded.

I burst into tears, unable to respond. I saw a shadow approaching and braced for a strike—but instead, a soft, gentle hand touched my face. The fragrance of his cologne was intoxicating, the most heavenly scent I had ever experienced.

"Why are you crying?" he asked softly.

Before I could answer, the kabo's voice came from behind me: "Their cows destroyed your newly planted sugarcane."

Still bowing, I never lifted my head to see Don Rafael's face.

"Bring your cow home, and come to my house later," Don Rafael said. "Make sure you wash yourself and bring some of your clothes. Also, let your father know I'm inviting you both."

I ran back home as fast as I could, dragging the cows with me. When I saw my father, I hugged him tightly.

"Sorry, Father... we'll be in jail tonight."

He tied the cows under the tree, and I explained what had happened. He looked at me with calm eyes and said, "It was an accident. Don't be afraid. Stop crying—we can fix this."