The Long Return

What do you do after spending 29 years in prison for a single, youthful mistake?

How do you stitch back a life unraveled, piece by piece, day by day? How do you find your footing when the world you knew has changed its rules, its rhythms, its face? How do you reclaim a family you left as children—now grown, with children of their own? How do you chase again the dreams that once waited patiently, only to grow old with you?

My friend Adoy is now trying to answer those questions. And he answers them not in speeches, not in slogans, but in small, trembling steps.

I met him again two months after his release. We had shared a cell in Quezon City Jail in Kamuning when he was 36. He is now 65—a senior citizen, body breaking down in parts, spirit holding up with what strength it can muster. Twenty-nine years in prison makes a stranger out of time. You forget the sound of city traffic, the feel of money, the etiquette of touchscreens.

It was our first reunion outside of prison walls. I used to see him during my research visits in the National Penitentiary, a nod here, a conversation there. But when he was transferred to the Iwahig Penal Colony in Palawan, he disappeared into the country’s forgotten spaces. For ten years, I heard nothing—until Kristine, his daughter who was just a toddler when he entered prison, contacted me. She was now an adult, with her own strength, her own scars, asking if I could help bring her father home.

And so I learned that Adoy had lived with dignity behind bars. He joined reformation programs. He became an inmate leader, helped the officers maintain peace and order. He made native crafts—small artistic tokens of a man trying to leave a mark. He earned 20 years’ worth of Good Conduct Time Allowance, which should have made his stay equivalent to 44 years. Still, the wheels of justice turned as they always do—slowly, if at all. It took two more years of paperwork, pleading, and prayers before he walked out free.

Yesterday, we sat in a modest restaurant. Him, and his two children—now grown, now whole. It was a moment that felt suspended in grace. We reminisced. About endless jail visits. About legal processes that made no sense, about promises of help that ended in betrayal. But we also spoke of love—of how they kept their ties intact, how they endured despite convictions, of being a candidate in the death row, despite denied appeals, despite time. Time—the cruelest jailer of all.

Adoy is now a lolo. A grandfather learning how to live again. Since he never had a proper check-up in prison, he’s now discovering ailments that accumulated silently over the years. But he laughs about it. His children tease him that he’s like a teenager—clumsy with smartphones, amazed by Grab rides, delighted by online food delivery. He talks about starting a business again. He talks about his grandkids with a sparkle you only find in those who’ve seen darkness too long. He recently signed up with a network of former PDLs who campaign against the death penalty.

He says he wants to fight a good fight.

And he will.

Because sometimes, redemption doesn’t come like thunder. It comes like this: a father learning how to text. A grandfather telling bedtime stories for the first time. A man who has been forgotten by the system, remembered by his family. A prisoner walking free—not just out of the prison gate, but out of shame, silence, and the chains of regret.

He is going to give it his all.

And that, perhaps, is the better fight.

The one worth waging. The one worth waiting.