The day my sister, Diya Santos, fell ill, the entire family panicked and rushed her to a major hospital in Quezon City, Metro Manila. Diya, already thin and frail, was seriously ill this time. She lay unconscious on a white hospital bed, her eyes still fixed on her brother-in-law, as if seeking solace. But as I stepped out of the room, I heard Aling Kamila—her mother-in-law—clearly, her voice cold as a knife:
“She’s sick like this, it’ll only add to the burden. Leave her and marry someone healthy who can have children. You’re still young, why tie your life to a sick wife?”
I was stunned. Rico Santos—my brother-in-law—kept his head down, silent. I thought he would defend his wife. But no… her voice continued:
“I’m telling you the truth. Your future is still ahead. Let him stay here; my family will take care of him. Our family doesn’t need to worry. I’ll find a good match for you in a few months.”
I walked out trembling and confronted her:
“Ate, my sister is his wife. You know we’ve been together for years—how can you say you’ll abandon him like throwing away something broken? If you fall ill one day, who will care for you?”
She shot me a sharp look:
“What does a daughter know? A family must think of their son, not their sick daughter-in-law.”
I looked at Rico, hoping to see resistance. But he just sighed, turned away, and muttered:
“You go home and take care of your sister… Let me and my mother handle this.”
At that moment, I understood: the cruel person wasn’t just his mother—it was the very person my sister had trusted with her life.
Diya was discharged and returned to our parents’ home in Quezon City, silently enduring both physical and mental pain. Shortly after, Rico filed a petition in the Quezon City Family Court, coldly stating: “I can no longer fulfill my marital duties.”
She signed it, eyes moist. From that day, Rico’s name was never mentioned at home.
A few months later, news spread: Rico had married a new woman—a young and beautiful woman from a wealthy family—named Neha Cruz. The wedding was a grand affair, the procession resounded with drums and trumpets, and Aling Kamila proudly boasted, “The new daughter-in-law is healthy, capable, and looks set to give birth to a noble son.”
Everyone thought Rico’s life had changed.
But life had other plans. Just five months later, bad news spread: Neha went to a doctor and was diagnosed with infertility. Aling Kamila was struck, muttering curses under her breath. Yet—one morning, the whole household discovered that the money cupboard was empty: the bank passbook, the wedding gold, cash, and even the new motorcycle were gone. Neha—the “beloved daughter-in-law”—had run off with someone else.
Rico stood in the middle of the courtyard, pale and muttering:
“Why… why is this happening…”
The neighbors whispered:
“Leaving a sick wife to marry a beautiful woman, and losing both wife and wealth.”
That day, I took Diya to Quiapo Market, and coincidentally we saw a mother and daughter frantically searching for their missing “daughter-in-law.” Diya smiled quietly and whispered:
“God sees everything. Like the wind, unseen, yet sharp as a blade.”
The Manila summer was sweltering. News of Neha Cruz’s escape with her husband’s wealth spread through the streets of Quezon City. Rico filed a missing person report at the police station, while Aling Kamila sat on the veranda daily, muttering, “Karma, karma…” The house, once filled with the sounds of wedding celebrations, fell silent. People who saw her in the market either turned away or whispered: “God sees everything.”
And Diya returned to our parents’ home to recover after her serious illness. She had grown gaunt, but her eyes regained a glimmer of life. Every morning, I would take her out on my bicycle in the sunshine and buy her hot tea and some crispy taho. She was quiet, but whenever she saw children selling sampaguita garlands, a quiet determination would appear in her eyes.
One afternoon, she asked me to find a way for her to continue her handmade embroidery. She said, “I can stitch again, even if my hands tremble—it will last.” I took her to Bayanihan Women’s Cooperative, a self-help group in the Barangay Hall, where widows, divorcees, and abandoned women sewed for a living. The group leader, Rehana, looked at the scar on Diya’s hand and shook her head:
“Sit down, Didi. No one here asks about your past, only about the stitches.”
From then on, the sisters brought their looms every afternoon. Diya taught the intricate stitches and mentored new members. Her first order—milky-white alampay, subtle as a whisper—was thirty pieces from a shop in Quiapo. The money wasn’t much, but enough for medicine and evening English classes. “No one needs to hear Rico’s name when I pay for my medicines,” she said.
One rainy evening, while drying wet clothes, there was a knock. Rico and Aling Kamila stood on the veranda, drenched. Their heads bowed low. “Let us in and talk,” Aling Kamila whispered.
I wanted to slam the door. But Diya said:
“Let them in. We’re not afraid of the past.”
Rico sat on a rattan chair, hesitating:
“You… were right. Your mother… was wrong too. If I… could come home, I… would make amends.” His voice was soft, like rain.
Diya poured tea, quietly:
“I’m going home, brother. My home is here. I wish you peace. As for returning—no.”
Aling Kamila grabbed her son’s sleeve. Diya looked at him and said:
“I asked you in the hospital corridor: If you get sick one day, who will be with you? I still stand by that question. Now I have no answer for your family.”
Rico mumbled an apology. Before leaving, he placed a small wooden box on the table:
“Here’s your stridhan—some gold bracelets… I kept them, now I return them.”
Diya handed the box to me:
“Send these to the Bayanihan Cooperative as a revolving fund. Other women need this money more than you.”
Aling Kamila stood silently. For the first time, I saw not just pride, but fear—the fear of someone realizing she might one day grow old quickly. She turned to Diya:
“Forgive me, daughter.”
Diya nodded. No hug, no tears. Just enough to signal a door for forgiveness—but not a door to turn back.
News of Diya returning her stridhan to the cooperative spread quickly. Women who had been timid grew bolder, dreaming of sewing machines, market kiosks, and uniforms for their children. We opened a small kiosk in Quiapo Market:
“Bayanihan: Chicken by the Women of Manila.” On opening day, Diya’s old school principal stopped by and bought three shawls. “I remember you reciting poems as a student,” he said. “Today I see you selling dreams.”
A portion of profits went to a health fund, “Ligaya”, providing insurance for five sisters suffering from illnesses. Diya signed as the first sponsor. The woman abandoned by sickness was now the first to support others.
One Navaratri morning, as we prepared shawls for donation in the church courtyard, Aling Kamila distributed porridge to pilgrims. She moved slowly, supporting her back. Rico stood nearby. He saw us, didn’t avoid us.
Aling Kamila reached out to take a scarf and said:
“This is beautiful.” Then she looked at Diya:
“If I had spoken one word less that day, maybe life would be different.”
Diya replied:
“If you had been weaker that day, your life would have been different. We’re all learning from the beginning.”
Some stories need no more words.
A Letter to the Court, and a Letter to Herself
Months later, the Quezon City Family Court invited both parties to confirm the divorce. Diya enclosed a letter:
“I’m not asking for alimony. I only ask that the court recognize my right to live without harassment.”
The judge nodded. Rico signed as well. As he left, he paused.
That night, Diya wrote a letter to her reflection:
“Diya, ten threads are not worth a moment’s courage. They may take your title of ‘wife,’ but no one can take your dignity. Tomorrow, I’ll light a lamp outside, small but enough to show the way.”
That Diwali, dozens of lamps lined a path in front of her parents’ home. Young girls from Bayanihan helped. Diya presented the first Ligaya Foundation scholarship to two girls from a tea-selling family. “Promise me you’ll study. When times get tough, come to Bayanihan. Someone will support you.”
I saw her—the woman once cornered—now standing in the light. That night, we learned Neha had been arrested in another town for a financial scam. Diya simply turned off her phone:
“You reap what you sow. I’ll embroider this scarf first.”
On New Year’s Eve, we bought new chicken scarves at the shop. On the way home, Diya smiled at passersby:
“When I was sick, people thought I was a burden. Today, every stitch feeds many families.”
I nodded:
“God is watching—even the sky has eyes.”
She gently squeezed my hand. No anger—just the peace of someone choosing her own path. A path that didn’t lead back to the old house, didn’t answer the call of regret—but led straight to where women stood shoulder to shoulder, building their lives with their own hands.
The lamp flickered in the breeze, then stopped. In Manila’s cold evenings, some things shine brighter the colder they are. Some lessons take a lifetime: Justice comes slowly, but when it does, it stands at the right door.