Half for my parents. Half for me.

I am the eldest daughter of 11 siblings.

Growing up, my siblings were my world. I was like a second mother to them, and from an early age I became a breadwinner for my family.

I was a college graduate and worked in an office in the Philippines. But there were always so many plans in my mind about how I could help my family have a good future.

So I decided to leave.

It was exciting to think that maybe another country could open a door for me and my family. But I was also very sad to leave them.

My mother was the only one who came to see me off at the airport.

When I boarded the plane, I was so unsure what to do. Everything was a new experience. I remember the food arriving and looking around at what everybody else was doing.

I was not used to using a knife and fork.

I thought, “Can I just use my hands?”

I was nervous, but I told myself that I had spent a fortune on this trip.

I would not give up the chance.

I first went to Denmark because I had a friend there who was trying to help me find work.

When I arrived, it was winter.

I saw snow falling almost every day from the window.

I was alone, with no one to talk to.

I felt so lonely.

I missed my siblings. I missed home. I missed adobo and fried fish, the food I grew up with.

At home, we didn't go to restaurants. We were a big family. I cooked ginataang dishes, moringa leaves and whatever vegetables were available with coconut milk.

For four months, my family did not hear from me.

I didn't want to tell them bad news.

I was their hope.

I had to be strong for them, or at least I wanted them to believe that I was.

Then one day, I saw an advertisement for a job in the South of France. I wrote an application letter and was accepted.

There were no mobile phones then. I couldn't simply call home and tell everyone what was happening.

So I sent them a letter.

“This time I have good news.”

And I left again.

Eventually, I came to Monaco.

In the Philippines, I had worked in an office. But I didn't speak French, so the work available to me was housekeeping and looking after children.

It was all new to me.

Later, my employer asked me to cook for the family.

I didn't cook at home before.

So I relied on all the cooking books I could find on the kitchen shelves and started experimenting.

I learned French and British cuisine from recipe books. I was motivated to learn new things about my job.

My attitude was simple:

“If you don't know, be honest.”

“I am willing to learn. Just teach me, please.”

Little by little, I became the cook of the family.

I was happy when they told me the food I prepared was good and delicious. Sometimes they introduced me to their guests. I met other people and slowly overcame my shyness.

I worked very hard.

Sometimes, when there was lunch or dinner, I worked 14 or 16 hours.

But now I was earning enough to send money home.

That was why I had left.

After one year, my husband joined me. Eventually, he also found work, and we began to build our own family here.

I became a mother.

But my siblings back home were still part of my responsibility.

For many years, almost every year, we went back to the Philippines for our holidays. It was our compensation to ourselves after working so hard, and a way of visiting the family I missed.

I saved money during the year for those trips.

Whenever there was a financial crisis in the family, so much was expected from me. I did it blindly for many years because I cared and loved them so much.

There were times I needed to take extra jobs just to have more income for my growing family here.

I had no savings at all.

When I look back now, I understand something differently.

In our culture, when somebody goes out of the country, sometimes it becomes their responsibility to help the rest of the family back home.

Helping your family is important.

But unconditional love does not mean helping all the time when you don't have the means.

It took me many years to understand that.

Raising my own daughters while working full time was another challenge.

My eldest daughter grew up with the children of my employer. They played together, went to restaurants and went to ballet together.

But when she started school, things became more difficult for me.

She depended on herself for her school assignments because my knowledge of the language was limited.

I tried to help her, but sometimes we both cried in front of an unfinished school assignment.

It was hard to accept that as a mother, I could not always help my daughter with what she needed in school.

So I concentrated on what I could do.

I was determined to raise her and love her as much as I could.

Maybe those difficulties helped her become independent.

She studied hard.

Years later, she graduated with a Master's degree.

On her graduation day, my daughter gave me her diploma.

She told me that her success was mine as well.

I was so proud of her.

Today, I am in my seventies and retired after many years of hard work.

Looking back at the past, I feel a sense of accomplishment in my life.

I am proud to leave my family an heirloom of sacrifice and hard work — of what we went through to become what we are now, happy as one family and loving each other.

“This is my Pamana to you.”

“Not a material thing, but love and devotion to family.”

“From nothing to something.”

— E., Monaco