The Store Manager’s Hidden Receipt

My name is Rolando. I’m the store manager for one of the biggest supermarket chains in Quezon City. People look at my barong and my radio and think I’m the "big boss" of the floor, but the truth is I’m just a servant to a dream that isn't mine.

I met Camille when she was hired as a seasonal promo girl for a juice brand. She had this smile that could cut through the stress of a weekend rush. She was a graduating student, struggling to pay her tuition and help her family back in the province. I’ve lived a simple life; I don't have a family of my own, and my salary as a manager is more than I need. When her father got sick and she told me she’d have to drop out of school, I didn't think twice.

"Huwag ka mag-alala, Camille," I told her. I told her I had a "scholarship foundation" connection through the company. It was a lie. I just took my mid-year bonus and my 13th-month pay and deposited it straight into her school’s account. I told her the company was "investing in future leaders."

For two years, I was her secret benefactor. I didn't just pay for her books; I made sure she always had the best shifts. I’d give her the air-conditioned spots near the entrance while I stood in the heat of the loading dock. I’d buy her lunch every day, telling her it was "excess from the manager’s meeting." I spent my savings making sure she never felt the weight of being poor. I justified it because seeing her in her graduation toga was the only "promotion" I cared about.

Then she graduated. She got a high-paying job as a marketing executive in BGC. She didn't need the supermarket anymore, and she didn't need the promo girl uniform.

"Kuya Rolly, visit me at my new office!" she texted me one day. I was so proud. I wore my best barong and took two buses and a jeepney just to get to the high-rise building where she worked. I brought a box of her favorite ensaymada from our bakery.

When I got to the lobby, I saw her. She was with a guy named Ethan—a young, wealthy guy who worked in the same firm. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my monthly mortgage.

"Camille!" I called out, waving the box.

She turned around, and for a second, I saw a flash of embarrassment in her eyes. She looked at my supermarket ID hanging from my pocket, then at her friends.

"Oh, Kuya Rolly! You’re here," she said, her voice quiet. She turned to Ethan. "This is Rolando. He was my manager back when I had that summer job in college. He’s like an uncle to me."

Uncle. Not the man who paid for her thesis. Not the man who skipped meals so she could have a laptop.

"Nice to meet you, Chief," Ethan said, not even offering a hand. "Thanks for looking after her back then. Anyway, babe, we’re going to be late for the tasting at the Manila Hotel. Let's go?"

Camille took the box of ensaymada from me. "Thanks for this, Kuya. I’ll share it with the staff. I’m really busy right now, but let’s catch up soon, okay?"

She walked away, and I watched her get into Ethan’s sports car. I stood there in the middle of the BGC sidewalk, feeling the heat of the sun on my barong. I realized I was just a chapter in her "success story" that she wanted to edit out.

I’m back at the store today. The air conditioning is broken in Aisle 4, and a customer is screaming at me about the price of rice. My phone buzzed—it was a message from Camille.

"Kuya Rolly, I’m so sorry to ask, but my mom needs an operation and my credit cards are maxed out from the down payment on my new condo. Is there any way the 'foundation' can help one last time? I’ll pay it back, promise."

I looked at my bank balance. I have exactly five thousand pesos left for the month. I looked at the line of people waiting for me to solve their problems. I started typing back, telling her not to worry, that I’d "check with the board." I’m already planning which of my old watches I can sell at the pawnshop after my shift. I’m the manager of a giant store, but I’m bankrupt for a girl who only calls me "Kuya" when the bill comes due.