I am Anna, 28 years old, an administrative assistant at an export-import company in Makati.
My husband, Marco, 30 years old, is a civil engineer.
We met two years ago at a friends’ reunion.
He was quiet, a bit serious, and not immediately noticeable — but little by little, his calm and responsible nature won me over.
I come from a simple family in Batangas.
My parents were market vendors — not rich, but respectable.
I was raised to be respectful and patient, so when I entered marriage, I carried with me the thought that “a good wife knows how to be patient and understanding.”
Marco comes from a more established background.
His parents are both retired government employees, living in a three-story house in Quezon City.
Before marriage, I visited them several times.
The family was quiet, disciplined, and somewhat formal, but without any sign of evil.
Mrs. Santos — my mother-in-law — was a typical conservative woman, always polite but cold.
I thought that if I just behaved properly, they would accept me.
The wedding was simple but orderly.
My family tried to prepare everything without fail.
On my first night as Marco’s wife, I thought I was starting a new phase — a quiet and happy home.
But I was wrong.
On the third day, Mrs. Santos told me to get up at five in the morning to prepare breakfast for the whole family.
I had no complaints, that was natural for a new wife.
But when I learned that everyone liked different things, I started to get tired:
My father-in-law wanted arroz caldo, Marco wanted eggs and bread, my youngest (my sister-in-law Carla) wanted a sandwich and milk, and my mother-in-law wanted rice and dry food.
I did everything.
But when I served the food, no one said “thank you.”
Mrs. Santos took her food to the room, while Carla rudely said,
“Ate Anna, your cooking seems tasteless. Can you just eat that?”
I didn’t answer.
I chose to smile — because that’s what my mother taught me: “A good wife knows how to control herself.”
On the fifth day, Mrs. Santos told me that I wasn’t allowed to use the washing machine — she said that I had to wash my clothes by hand “so that the electricity bill wouldn’t increase.”
I asked Marco, but all he could say was:
“Just give it to Mama, that’s just how she is.”
One night, at eleven o’clock, I went downstairs to take out the trash.
From the living room, I heard Mrs. Santos and Carla talking.
“Look at that Anna, she’s only been here for three days and you think she’s a princess. If I don’t teach her, she might even rule here!”
“You’re right, Mama. It’s a good thing Kuya got married — at least we have a free maid!”
I froze.
I just stood there, in the darkness of the kitchen, while their words fell like knives.
The next day, I decided to leave quietly.
Marco had sent his salary to the bank, so I had enough money to go home to Batangas.
Before leaving, I wrote on a piece of paper:
“I’m sorry if I’ve been a bother to you. I came here not as a maid, but as Marco’s wife and a child in this family. But if there’s no room for respect from the beginning, I can’t force myself. — Anna.”
I left the paper on the dresser, took some clothes with me, and left without saying goodbye.
I didn’t even bring a ring.
When I got home, Mama was surprised.
She didn’t ask questions right away — she just hugged me tightly.
“Son, stay here for now. Here, no one will judge you.”
I didn’t leave my room for two days.
Not because of shame, but because of the pain of realizing that the home I had entered was not a family — but a prison.
On the third day, Marco arrived.
He was thin, he didn’t seem to be sleeping.
“Anna… forgive me. I didn’t know they were doing that to you.”
I looked at him, coldly:
“You don’t know? Or don’t you just want to know?”
He was silent.
Then he said:
“If you want to go away, I’ll go with you. Let’s not go back to them.”
For the first time, I saw the fear in his eyes — not because of the loss of his wife, but because of the loss of the person he loved.
Three days passed before I agreed to go back — not to live with him, but to say goodbye in person.
Mama came with me.
When the door opened, Mrs. Santos stopped.
“Why did you come back? We didn’t look for you.”
I smiled, calmly:
“I’m not here to go back, but to end it.”
I gave him the letter stating my decision:
“I don’t have to be a wife to a disrespectful family. If Marco can’t defend his wife, I’d rather live alone.”
The whole house was silent.
Marco sat next to me, holding my hand.
“Mama, we’re leaving. We’re going to look for a house. I can’t stand to see him like this.”
Mrs. Santos’s face changed.
“You mean, you’re going to leave us for him?”
“I’m not leaving you. But if you choose anger over love, I’m leaving.”
A week later, Marco and I moved to Cavite, to a small but quiet apartment.
Just the two of us.
No shouting, no belittling.
When he came home from work, we would prepare dinner together — sometimes me, sometimes him.
His family didn’t contact us for two months.
Until one day, his mother called:
“Marco, get ready. Come home for the party. I prepared your favorite adobo.”
No bragging, no mockery.
Just a simple invitation.
And that was probably the first step to forgiveness — not because they forgot, but because they learned to respect our silence.
I never wanted to be queen in my husband’s house.
All I wanted was to be a wife and a daughter who had the right to be respected.
The role I left behind in Quezon City, I thought was the end.
Now, I know — that was the beginning of being true to myself.
“I left the house of the Saints not to give up, but to fight — for respect, for dignity, and for my own peace.”