Unseen in the Corner, Waiting to Complete the Broken Picture

In July 2025, I visited, along with my colleagues, one of the residential facilities operating under our regional jurisdiction. Nestled in a densely populated area in Cebu City, the place opened its doors to children in need—those whose families couldn’t provide for their basic needs. The facility is run by religious individuals who live out their calling through a life of service, fully committed to God and humanity. They live by the principles of Mother Teresa—serving without expecting anything in return.

Love and care were felt immediately as we arrived. We saw adult caregivers attending to more than a dozen children, all of similar age and height. The way the staff gently guided and embraced the children showed how deeply they cared. Their mission is to nurture these young ones until the day their parents or families are ready to welcome them back.

I didn’t know each child’s story, but a deep sadness came over me. It was a strange feeling, considering I once worked as a case manager in a residential care facility. I understand the common reasons why children end up in places like this, yet that day, the emotion felt heavier. Maybe it was the sheer number of little ones or the quiet longing I saw in their eyes.

The night before our visit, I prayed. I prayed for these children—that they may find themselves in good hands. I prayed for the moments they longed to call their mama and papa that someone would be there to hold their hand. I hoped the caregivers, though outnumbered, could give at least a fraction of love to each child. And I asked God to bless the hands and hearts of these selfless people.

Despite their situation, the children still played and laughed, finding comfort in one another’s company. It was heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. They acted as if nothing was wrong—as if everything was okay. But deep down, I knew their reality wasn’t something a child should carry. The weight they hold comes from problems adults have to solve.

As we prepared to leave, so many thoughts filled my mind. The children seemed happy, yet there were no parents to witness their joy. At their young age, competition was already visible. Each child fought, even silently, for attention, for love, for toys—for anything that gave them a sense of worth and belonging. I wondered how long they would stay. Would they return home? Or would they be moved again?

Children below five years old should not grow up in institutions. They need homes where they can run to their mama or papa when they’re scared or sad. Homes where they feel safe, loved, and secure. But when homes fall apart, the children often suffer the most. They become like scattered pieces of a broken picture, left in corners unseen, forgotten.

With the heavy emotion I carried from the visit, I didn’t realize how much it affected me physically. The next morning, I didn’t feel well. I recognized that familiar ache in my body. I’ve felt it before—after counseling a client, interviewing a victim of abuse, or facilitating a mother’s painful decision to relinquish her parental rights. That kind of emotional weight doesn’t just stay in the heart. Sometimes, it settles in the body too.

These little ones, too, are part of the picture. To rebuild a broken family, the scattered pieces must be found and brought back together. But it often feels like the children are the last ones picked up, left waiting. Forgotten not because no one cares—but because the world moves too fast, and their quiet voices are too easily missed.

So I ask, are they still forgotten? Or is someone out there still trying to find and gather them? I hope someone is. And I hope it doesn’t take too long. Because while these children may seem strong, even the strongest hearts need someone to come back for them.

Let us not forget the silent ones in the shadows. The children who smile in play but cry in silence. While faithful hands care for them today, may we also do our part tomorrow. Whether through prayer, action, or love—let's help bring them home.