“My mother-in-law, Aling Loida, was known throughout our village in San Isidro, Laguna as the most ill-tempered and stingiest old woman. Our neighbors even had a saying: ‘Aling Loida, even if she had just one peso, she’d lick it first before putting it under her pillow.’
I lived with her for ten years. I was constantly scolded—for taking too long in the shower, for cooking too much rice, for buying milk for my child without asking her permission. But I endured it—for my husband, for my child.”
One day, she suddenly fell severely ill, unable to get up, barely breathing. She reached out her thin, trembling hand toward me:
— “D-Daughter… take… this…”
She handed me an old red passbook, its edges worn and faded.
— “Tomorrow… go to the bank… withdraw everything… bring it home… remember…”
I panicked.
— “Nanay, please don’t bother. I’ll call Kuya so he can—”
But she tightened her grip and suddenly stared at me, as if she feared something deeply.
— “NO! You! Only you can withdraw it… if someone else takes it… we will all be in danger…”
A chill ran down my spine at her words.
The next day, she passed away.
Holding the passbook, my heart pounded. The entire family—from Kuya (older brother) to Ate (older sister)—stared at me as if they wanted to peer into the contents of the passbook.
— “It must be a huge amount… maybe hundreds of thousands of pesos. Her life savings,” Kuya said.
— “You go to the bank. Then we’ll split it three ways,” Ate interjected, staring intently at me.
I nodded and headed to the Bangko de Oro (BDO) in the town of San Isidro.
The teller, Ms. Nicole, smiled as she took the passbook.
— “Ma’am, please wait a moment. I’ll check it.”
I felt nervous while waiting. I thought, “If this is really a large sum… I’ll make her niche in the cemetery beautiful. Despite everything, she managed to save.” Even though I went through painful times, I still felt sad for her.
Three minutes.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes…
Suddenly, I noticed the teller’s face turned pale. She even called a bank technician. They whispered to each other.
Afterward, they called me into a private room.
My voice was trembling:
— “I-is there a problem?”
The teller handed the passbook back to me. And she said, in a cold voice…
I paused at the door of the small room inside the bank. I lost my breath when I saw Ms. Nicole’s face—pale, her entire body seemed to be trembling. She held the passbook in one hand, and a small USB flash drive in the other. Suddenly, I felt like my world was spinning fast.
— “Ma’am… we… we have a problem,” her voice was a whisper, cold.
I couldn’t believe it. “What is the problem?” I asked, almost voiceless.
Ms. Nicole glanced quickly to both sides—at the closed door, at the technician with his head down—then she began.
— “This is not a genuine, worn passbook, Ma’am.”
I was confused. “What do you mean—fake?”
She nodded, as if a heavy shout was muffled inside the room.
— “Yes. This worn passbook… and the account number in it… were flagged for a ‘fraud alert’ by the bank’s central database yesterday. When you presented it earlier—the system displayed: ‘ACCOUNT CLOSED / FLAGGED FOR FRAUD.’”
It was as if time had stopped. I was stuck between belief and shock.
— “But—” I mustered some courage, “why did you allow me to submit the passbook? You even let me wait!”
Ms. Nicole smiled—a smile that wasn’t pleasant, but filled with apprehension.
— “The truth is… we are reviewing a suspect. Yesterday, a man carried an identical passbook, almost exactly like yours—color, faded look, worn edges, even the serial number had nearly the same digits. But the name didn’t match the system. When he approached the counter, he quickly left without transacting. ‘Walk-in error,’ he said. We have CCTV footage, but his face is unclear—he was wearing a hoodie, sunglasses. We closed the account, retrieved the passbook and a USB. Now… the investigation shows there is a copying network—’ghost accounts,’ they call them, creating shell accounts across different parts of the country. All their passbooks like this are fake.”
I stood up, trembling. A coldness seemed to be creeping onto my skin.
— “Do you mean—this isn’t Aling Loida’s money? Not her savings?” I said, tears nearly igniting in my eyes.
— “No, Ma’am. There is no balance. That is not a real savings account. There is no record that Aling Loida was making deposits or saving here.”
I couldn’t speak. I wanted to rush out, but my feet felt stuck to the floor.
She paused, then Ms. Nicole spoke again:
— “But we have one more thing—the flash drive I’m holding. That’s the only one with genuine information.”
She handed it to me, with a serious expression.
— “Hidden there—if the deceased old woman truly owned money—are her original bank statement, land titles, and other papers. It’s better for you to check that before attempting to ‘withdraw.’”
My chest was crushing. “Okay…” I whispered, taking the USB, feeling as though I was holding my fate.
They brought out an old monitor, plugged in the USB. The screen lit up: a PDF document, name: “Loida M. Santos – Asset Inventory – FINAL (2025).pdf.”
I opened it, and the first thing I saw was a list of assets—land, land, a small farmland in the town of Malakas, Laguna; a small house/sari-sari store; several land plots in the town of Santa Maria; and—with a touch of surprise—an old jeepney.
And at the end of the list: an estimated value of ₱3,245,000.
I couldn’t think. It was like I had found a treasure—but why was the passbook wrong?
Ms. Nicole pulled out another file, named: “LOIDA S. SANTOS – WILL & MEMO – 2025-10-15.”
— “That is Aling Loida’s genuine ‘Last Will and Testament.’ It was saved in our secure vault, that is just a copy—for the beneficiaries.”
I was shocked when I read it:
“I, Aling Loida Santos, having these assets, and upon my death—all land, house, store, and jeepney—I bequeath to my only true daughter: Maria Santos-Reyes. All remaining money… if any… shall go to her. If she does not accept, then it shall go to her child—who is a female.”
I looked at the USB, then at the teller—exposing the cold truth.
I heard nothing in the room except the slow beat of my heart.
It was clear—crystal clear: I would not get a single peso. Everything belonged to the eldest daughter of my deceased mother-in-law. I—though I was the one who personally took care of her mother in her final days—was deemed not worthy.
“Why…” I whispered, trying to calm myself. “Why… why did my mother-in-law bring me here? What was the purpose?”
I let out a deep sigh.
— “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I know this is hard to accept. But that is what is written in her last will.”
I left the room, carrying the USB and the papers. Outside, the whole family was waiting—Kuya, Ate, even my husband and the neighbors. I heard murmuring, gossip, suspicion.
When I got close, Ate immediately rushed over, mixed with joy and resentment.
— “See? There was money! Maybe she was generous to you?” she said, with a sarcastic smile.
— “No…” I replied, trembling.
I didn’t open my mouth anymore. I just handed them the USB and showed the contents.
Kuya let out a tremendous yell—the air almost reverberated.
— “That’s not right! It’s still money! We should all inherit!”
But I showed them the last will and testament. When they read it, even Ate, even Kuya—they were disheartened. They couldn’t find a single line that said “Equal shares” or “Divide by three”—only “TO THE DAUGHTER.”
The day darkened before me. I just wanted to sit down and scream.
Before the day truly ended, I remembered one thing—the cold gaze of my deceased mother-in-law in her final moments. She said:
“Only… you… can withdraw it… otherwise… the whole family will die…”
I realized—it wasn’t just a warning. It was a curse.
Night after night, when I slept, I had nightmares: yellow eyes, metallic footsteps, the sound of a jeepney, chasing me. At first, I thought it was just stress—but it was repetitive. Until one night, there was a knock at my door.
I was startled—it was late, silent. Maybe a ghost. But when I opened it—nothing. I saw nothing.
The next morning, my husband discovered something on his phone—a text message, from an unknown number:
“Return what isn’t yours. Or your jeepney, your land… will also disappear.”
I shook my head, pounding my chest—it felt like something was churning inside. I didn’t know if it was true. But since then, everyone looked at me differently. The warmth of their greetings diminished. It felt like a thorn was embedded.
I didn’t know what was real. But one thing was clear: even with a testament—there was a silent prayer, a fear, a curse.
I slept all night—and in my sleep, my dream: I saw my deceased mother-in-law. Smiling. She handed me what looked like an old photograph of a woman—sad, staring at me.
And I heard her voice, peaceful—
“If you truly loved me… Return the jeepney and the land to me. Don’t let my memory be poisoned.”
I woke up, startled—trembling with fear and confusion.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I go back to the bank? Should I return the lands and the jeepney? Should I fight for my right—even though I knew this was not meant for me?
Maybe… not yet. I’ll think for a few more days. Maybe I can ask a lawyer. Maybe I can look at the other documents. Maybe—I should try to find the blue folder I saw in their house’s pantry a while ago. The mystery said there was a paper there, a “secret clause”—but only I saw it.
Maybe… maybe the voice was real. Maybe the curse was real.
Or maybe—the only thing that was real… was that even without a single peso, something lived in me: the truth.
Share what you would say in the comment section. If you know of a similar case—share that too. Who is right? Who has the soul? Sometimes, it’s not just the money that should be looked at—but what it can do to your heart.
Three days after I saw the last will and the USB, I couldn’t stop thinking. The bank, the family, and the curse of my deceased mother-in-law—everything seemed to cycle back in my mind, repeatedly.
But there was one thing I couldn’t forget: the old folder I saw in their house’s pantry—it had written on it: “Secret Clause – For Maria Only.”
I went to my deceased mother-in-law’s house, at night, quietly, without anyone knowing. I found the old cupboard in the kitchen. I removed the plates and glasses, and there, hidden, was the blue folder.
I opened it and found: a handwritten will, superseding the original, and a letter that read:
“If you read this, daughter, you know there is a curse on the land and assets. Whoever takes the land incorrectly will experience unexplainable events—your jeepney will disappear, the land will be plagued with problems, and my memory will not fade from you. But if you pass it to the right person—peace and wealth will await.”
At the bottom, there was another person’s name—not mine, not Maria, but an old man in the village, known as Mang Ramon, the former caretaker of the family’s land.
I couldn’t believe it. All the warnings and curses seemed to be meant for me who carried the USB and the passbook.
The next day, as I was walking down the road, I noticed a jeepney parked in front of my house, even though I didn’t own one.
Suddenly, a cold wind blew, and I heard my deceased mother-in-law’s voice:
“Take back the land. Give it back to the right person. Return the jeepney.”
When I looked at the land, there were footprints on the grass—as if someone had walked there at night.
I didn’t know if this was a ghost or just a dream. But since then, all the assets I thought were safe, slowly began to have problems: the small house in Santa Maria was damaged by the rain, the store burned down inexplicably, and my jeepney suddenly disappeared.
It was as if my deceased mother-in-law was watching, and she had a message—“the money and assets are not for you.”
One evening, I bravely went to Mang Ramon, the old caretaker.
— “Mang Ramon, I heard… you have a secret about Aling Loida’s land.”
He smiled deeply.
— “Yes, grandchild. The true inheritance is not money. The inheritance is the lesson and the wisdom. Everything Aling Loida bequeathed had a condition: the one who cares for the land, develops it, and values her memory—only that person will attain the wealth.”
I looked at the documents—it was true. All the money, land, and assets were linked to the condition: if the wrong thing was done, everything would be lost. If the right thing was done, the wealth would grow and there would be peace.
I decided to follow the secret wish of my deceased mother-in-law. I went to the barangay hall, sorted out the legal documents, returned the jeepney and the land to Mang Ramon, and we started working together to fix the land and the house.
As we helped each other, I noticed: gradually, the cold and fierce aura in my family disappeared. My former anger and resentment toward Kuya and Ate were replaced by respect and gratitude.
And one night, as I looked at the jeepney, I heard my deceased mother-in-law’s voice, but now, peaceful and gentle:
“Thank you, child. Now, you also have peace in your heart. True wealth is not money… but the right decision and respect for family.”