Doña Elena Cruz had not slept a single minute.
The lavish wedding of her only son, Miguel, to the sweet yet still unfamiliar Isabella, had ended just before dawn. Their family home in Bulacan, north of Metro Manila, was left in chaos—thick with the smell of lechon, sticky rice cakes, spilled beer, and the sweat of over a hundred relatives who had danced to live banda music until sunrise.
Despite her aching bones, Doña Elena was already on her feet by 5 a.m., broom in hand. To her, a messy house was a mortal sin. By 10 a.m., the tropical sun was blazing, cicadas screaming outside—and from the upstairs bedroom where the newlyweds slept, there wasn’t a single sound.
Doña Elena’s blood began to boil.
She planted herself at the foot of the wooden stairs and shouted in the thunderous voice that once terrified all her grandchildren:
“Isabella! Miguel! It’s already morning! Come down and help! This is not a hotel!”
Silence.
The heat and her anger crawled up her neck.
“Don’t think I’m old and stupid! Get those lazy bones out of bed!”
She slammed the railing with her palm.
Nothing. Not even a creak.
Her indignation blinded her.
What kind of daughter-in-law sleeps this late on her first day? Already acting like a queen while her mother-in-law breaks her back cleaning?
Sweaty, exhausted, patience shattered, Doña Elena stormed into the kitchen. Her eyes landed on the thick wooden broom handle she kept behind the door. She grabbed it like a weapon.
“Now they’ll learn who runs this house,” she muttered.
She marched up the stairs, heart pounding, breath heavy, ready to drag them out of bed by force if she had to. This lesson—especially for that girl—would never be forgotten.
She burst into the bedroom without knocking.
The air was hot. Stale.
“Have you no shame—!”
The words died in her throat.
Her eyes widened in horror.
The broom slipped from her sweaty hands and hit the floor with a dull crack.
Doña Elena clapped a hand over her mouth, choking back a scream.
The marital bed looked like something out of a nightmare.
The white cotton sheets—her most expensive wedding gift—were covered in dark, deep red stains, thick and smeared, like dried blood. White feathers were scattered everywhere, stuck to the damp patches, floating like snow over a battlefield.
It looked as if someone had been slaughtered.
But the worst part was the people.
Isabella was curled up in the corner of the bed, pale as wax, trembling violently, eyes swollen from crying, clutching the sheet to her chest.
And Miguel—her Miguel—sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, gasping for air. His arms and chest were smeared with that same dark red substance, his eyes filled with panic and exhaustion as he stared at his mother.
“Holy Mother of God… Miguel! What have you done?!”
Doña Elena whispered, stumbling back against the wall, her legs giving out.
Miguel jumped up, dizzy, seeing his mother on the verge of collapse.
Isabella broke into hysterical sobs, burying her face in the feather-filled pillow.
“Mama! No! Please—wait! It’s not what you think!” Miguel cried hoarsely, raising his red-stained hands.
“It’s not blood, Mama! I swear!”
He pointed frantically to his chest. Beneath the sticky substance, his skin was angry red, covered in massive swollen rashes.
“It was the blanket! The goose-feather comforter you gave us!” he gasped.
“I’m allergic! I couldn’t breathe! It felt like my skin was on fire all night!”
Doña Elena stared at the stains again. Up close, they were too thick, too dark to be blood.
“And this—this is achuete and herbal paste!” Miguel continued desperately.
“Auntie Lorna made it for muscle pain! I was itching so badly I thought I’d rip my skin off! Isabella panicked—she remembered her lola saying achuete helps with inflammation. She ran to the kitchen in the middle of the night and covered me in it!”
Isabella lifted her head, face soaked with tears.
“Doña Elena, please forgive me!” she sobbed.
“Miguel couldn’t breathe! I thought he was going to die! I didn’t know what to do—I forgot to wake you up! I’m so sorry!”
Miguel pulled his wife into his arms. Both were shaking.
“We spent the whole night scratching, cleaning, changing sheets—but it kept spreading. Feathers everywhere. We only slept for an hour from pure exhaustion. Mama… please forgive us.”
Doña Elena stood frozen.
Her volcanic anger vanished in an instant, replaced by shame and pity that nearly crushed her.
She looked at the broom on the floor.
She had come upstairs ready to beat the woman who had spent the entire night desperately trying to save her son—and the cause of their suffering was her own gift.
What she thought was a crime scene had been a battlefield of love.
Slowly, she picked up the broom, using it like a cane. She touched her son’s burning shoulder, then looked at Isabella with painful tenderness.
“Isabella… hija…” her voice broke.
“Miguel may be a grown man, but he’s still the same fragile, allergic child. What a horrible wedding night you’ve had—because of me. Please forgive me. I was wrong.”
She straightened.
“Miguel, take your wife to the shower. I’ll get clean cotton sheets. Don’t touch these—I’ll wash everything myself.”
The Hidden Ticket
Later, in the laundry area, while scrubbing the achuete stains, Doña Elena’s fingers hit something hard beneath the mattress.
A thin manila envelope.
She opened it.
Inside was a one-way plane ticket.
Destination: Madrid, Spain.
Passenger: Miguel Cruz.
Departure: Two months from now.
Her heart dropped.
Why hide this?
A ticket only for him?
She slipped it into her apron pocket.
She needed the truth.
Now.
The Final Twist
When Miguel and Isabella came downstairs—clean but exhausted—the air felt heavy.
Doña Elena stood by the marble counter, arms crossed.
“Mama, what’s wrong? You have that look from when I broke Lola’s vase,” Miguel joked weakly.
“Some things are worse than breaking a vase,” she said coldly.
“Like breaking trust.”
She slammed the crumpled ticket onto the counter.
“Explain this. A one-way ticket to Spain. Behind my back.”
Miguel went pale.
Isabella lowered her head, crying again.
“Mama… I can explain—”
“Don’t call me Mama!” Doña Elena snapped.
“You just got married and you’re already running away?”
Miguel inhaled deeply.
“It’s a promotion. The company headquarters in Madrid offered me a director position. The biggest opportunity of my life.”
“Then why only one ticket?”
Suddenly, Isabella looked up.
She took Miguel’s hand and stepped forward.
“Please don’t blame Miguel. I bought the ticket.”
The kitchen went silent.
“He rejected the offer a month ago—for you. And for me. He didn’t want to leave you alone.”
She pointed at Miguel.
“I couldn’t allow that. I contacted his boss in secret. This chance comes once in a lifetime. I want Miguel to succeed—even if it means sacrificing my own happiness.”
Tears filled Doña Elena’s eyes—but this time, they burned with pride.
She pulled them both into a crushing hug.
“You two idiots… what wonderful, loving idiots.”
She picked up the ticket.
“Miguel—you’re going to Madrid.”
“But Mama… what about you?”
She laughed loudly.
“I’m Elena Cruz. I’ve survived typhoons, poverty, and your father. I’ll be fine.”
She waved the ticket.
“But this ticket is wrong.”
She smiled at Isabella.
“Because yours is missing. You’re going together. What kind of marriage starts apart?”
She clapped her hands.
“Tomorrow we buy the second ticket. Now sit down—lunch is getting cold.”