My name is Margarida. I am 73 years old, and I have faced many storms in my life.
I believed that when old age finally came, I would at last find peace beside my family.
After my husband passed away, I left our old concrete-and-wood house in the province and moved to the city to live with my only son—Daniel—and his wife, Olivia.
At first, I thought I would be happy.
Daniel was a senior executive at a large corporation and lived in a luxurious condominium in the heart of Bonifacio Global City.
Everything sparkled—the lights, the furniture, the carefully practiced smiles.
But I soon learned that behind all that shine was a coldness that did not come from the air-conditioning, but from the soul.
At night, we almost never ate dinner together.
“Daniel, aren’t you having dinner with us?” I asked one evening, serving the rice carefully.
He only glanced at his watch.
“I still have work, Ma. You two go ahead.”
Olivia lowered her eyes.
“Just a little, love… the soup is still warm,” she whispered.
“I said I’m not hungry. Enough!” Daniel shouted, slamming his spoon against the table.
My heart nearly stopped.
That look—cold, hard—was the same look my husband used to have…
before he hurt me.
Olivia stayed silent, forcing a smile.
“Don’t worry, Ma… he’s just tired.”
But I saw the truth.
On her wrist was a deep purple bruise—fresh, unmistakable.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
At three in the morning, the sound of running water woke me up.
I frowned.
Why is Daniel showering at this hour? I wondered.
But the sound wasn’t steady.
It came and went… mixed with something else.
Crying.
Or painful moans.
I walked slowly down the hallway. The bathroom door was slightly open, yellow light spilling through the crack.
I held my breath and looked inside.
What I saw almost made me collapse.
Daniel was not alone.
Olivia was sitting on the bathroom floor, soaked, trembling, her tears blending with the water.
Daniel knelt in front of her, scrubbing his hands frantically, over and over, repeating:
“I swear… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to…”
Blood mixed with the water and disappeared down the drain.
I screamed.
“Daniel! What did you do?!”
He looked up at me, pale as stone.
“Ma… it was an accident… I lost control…”
I rushed to Olivia. There was a deep cut on her arm, but she was still breathing.
With shaking hands, I called for an ambulance.
Those minutes felt like an eternity.
Daniel cried, begging for forgiveness, saying he wasn’t himself anymore—that work pressure, alcohol, and anger had consumed him.
Olivia survived.
Daniel was arrested that same night.
The condominium—once filled with luxury and prestige—became a tomb of silence and guilt.
And I…
Every time I wake up at three in the morning and hear running water, or rain hitting the window, I remember that night:
The water.
The crying.
The blood.
And I ask myself:
At what moment did my son stop being the gentle boy I raised, and become a man lost in his own darkness?
Even with a broken heart, I still pray every night—
that God may forgive him,
and that no mother will ever have to witness what I saw in those early morning hours.