1 day Ago
What could a young Filipino-American, raised far from the glitz of Philippine showbiz, possibly know about a national treasure like Nora Aunor? Plenty—because in our household, she was everything. Before I ever met her, before I fully understood what it meant to be Filipino, I already knew her name: Nora. Or, as my mom always called her with reverence and affection: Guy.
My mom was a diehard Noranian. Her eyes would light up whenever she talked about Nora—her voice, her movies, her poise, her soul. She used to tell me that, as a young girl in Calapan, Oriental Mindoro, the reward for getting good grades wasn't toys or sweets.
It was a boat ride to Manila just to see Nora on her birthday—to stand among her adoring fans and catch a glimpse of her idol. That was the dream. That was the prize.
That's the kind of impact Nora had: She was hope, she was home, she was someone to believe in. Later, when my uncle Roger became involved in the Estrada campaign, my mom supported it simply because Nora was there. Her loyalty ran deep.
And through her, mine quietly began. Years passed. I was a young banker trying to find my way in Las Vegas.
Nora happened to be spending time between L.A. and Vegas.
Somehow—by pure serendipity—our paths crossed. She was the Nora Aunor. I was just some kid in finance.
But somehow...
she saw me. And somehow..
.she stayed. She'd call me whenever she was in town—sometimes for a stroll in the casino, sometimes just to talk.
I became her banker, yes—but more than that, I became someone she felt safe with. She missed her children deeply, and I think, in a way, I became a stand-in: part son, part confidante, part friend. I never expected to be anything more, but one day in L.
A., she sat me down and asked a question I'll never forget: "Can you manage my career?" She and her dear friend, Sajid Khan, had lost trust in many people from the industry. They wanted someone outside of it.
Someone they believed wouldn't see her as a product—but as a person. That someone, somehow, was me. I didn't know anything about artist management.
But I knew how to care for people. I knew how to show up, listen, lead, and protect. I said yes—not because I wanted to be in showbiz, but because I genuinely cared about her.
We made a plan focused not on fame but on her well-being. Her joy. Her healing.
She didn't need a comeback. She was the comeback. She brought me to events and introduced me to her friends.
When I traveled to the Philippines, she asked me to meet her former manager, Nori Sayo. Nori welcomed me with warmth and even invited me to a dinner where Pilita Corrales was performing. Pilita—one of the most elegant women I've ever met—pulled me on stage to sing.
Who would've thought that both she and Tita Guy would leave this world just days apart? In the U.S., I had the honor of watching her perform live.
Her presence was magnetic. She wasn't just iconic—she was felt. After one concert, with no restaurants open, she brought me and my childhood best friend, Sead, back to her place in Los Angeles and cooked corned beef and rice for us past midnight—barefoot in her kitchen, laughing, mothering us.
That's who she was. A superstar who made you feel like the star. A legend, yes.
But also, a mother who loved with her whole heart. Though she'd introduce me as her manager, I never liked the title. I didn't feel worthy of it.
There were no contracts. No fees. No expectations.
Just love. Just loyalty. Eventually, life pulled us in different directions.
My career accelerated, and I was promoted to the East Coast. She had tours planned, songs recorded, and dreams of returning to the Philippines. I knew I couldn't give her the time she deserved, and it broke my heart to step away.
But we both understood—it was the right thing to do. She went home. And as she always did.
..she rose.
She reminded the world who she was. Even then, she never forgot me. She'd send old photos from her fans.
She'd send prayer notes. I'd check in—gently nagging her to rest, to take care of her health, to quit smoking. But over time, life got busier.
And our messages became fewer. Until last year. I was in Manila for a short trip, having lunch with my Mama G—the incomparable Gina Alajar, another legend of Philippine cinema—and Director Adolf Alix, Jr.
when her name came up. On a whim, they called her and handed me the phone. "Ate Guy, someone wants to say hi.
" Hearing her voice again was like hearing a lullaby from your childhood—familiar, grounding, tender. We caught up briefly, and I promised her dinner the next time I came back. But now.
..that dinner will never happen.
Why is it that we find the words when they're gone? Why do we offer the flowers when they can no longer smell them? Nora Aunor was, and will always be, the greatest actress the Philippines has ever known. She gave her life to art, to country, to truth. But beyond the accolades and titles, she gave me something greater: love.
Quiet, fierce, unconditional love. She believed in me when she didn't have to. She fed me when she didn't need to.
She embraced me as one of her own. She was human—flawed, funny, faithful, full of grace. A woman who hurt deeply but loved even deeper.
I'll carry her in my heart forever. The superstar my mom once idolized..
.became my Tita Guy. And that, to me, is more meaningful than any title on earth.
Mahal kita, Mama Guy. Thank you for everything. Brendan Flores held positions as president and National Chair of the National Federation of Filipino American Associations (NaFFAA).
He is a banker by profession. — The FilAm.
