My name is Eduardo “Dindo” Santos, I’m 36 years old, and a little over a year ago, I lost my wife, Celeste, a victim of an aggressive cancer that consumed her in barely six months. Since then, my life and that of my six daughters has turned into chaos—chaos that not even all the money in the world, or all the prayers to the Santo Niño, could fix.
I am the founder of Tech-Bayan, a tech company valued at over one billion pesos. On the surface, I have everything. A mansion in Forbes Park, imported luxury cars, a bank account that could support entire generations. But when the heart is empty, square meters and bank zeros only echo the silence.
During the last two weeks, 37 yayas (nannies) walked through the doors of my house.
Some ran away crying, others swore they would never return—not even for all the gold in Benguet. The agency staff already have me on a blacklist. They call me “Ang Imposibleng Kaso” (The Impossible Case). It’s not my fault, nor even the girls’. It’s the wound Celeste left behind, still open, festering like a scream trapped inside every room.
The house that once vibrated with laughter, songs, and the smell of freshly cooked sinigang now smells like wall paint, broken toys, and swallowed sobs.
My daughters… Diyos ko (My God), my daughters.
Maricel, the oldest, is 12, and has the sharpest mind I’ve ever seen in a child. She leads her sisters like a small army at war with the world.
She was the one who told me on the day of her mother’s funeral, her voice like broken glass:
“No woman will replace her, Papa. Wala na (No one else).”
Since then, every yaya who comes in becomes an enemy to be defeated.
Then there are the twins, Bea and Bianca, six years old. Two little girls who smile while conspiring. They put fake spiders in the tsinelas (slippers), block doors with glue, hide leftover adobo in drawers.
Their laughter, when they plan mischief, sounds almost like a shield against pain.
Lara, who is 10, fights a different battle. Since Celeste died, she pulls out strands of her own hair. There are bald patches on her head—signs of anxiety that not even the most expensive Manila psychologists have managed to stop.
Julieta, at 9, suffers from panic attacks, especially at night.
Sometimes I hear her screaming her mother’s name from across the hallway, “Mama! Mama Celeste!” and I freeze in front of the door, not knowing how to help her.
Sofia, 8 years old, has started wetting the bed again. Not out of carelessness, but fear—an emotional regression her mind can’t control.
And finally Isabelle, my 3-year-old, who barely speaks since she lost her mother. She whispers one or two words, like ‘Salamat’ (Thank you) or ‘Mahal kita’ (I love you), and only eats when she’s falling asleep.
Today, as I watched from the window the last yaya running away—uniform torn, hair dyed electric blue from some cruel prank by the twins—I felt a mix of shame and despair.
Thirty-seven in two weeks.
Thirty-seven women who all said the same thing before leaving:
“Sir, these girls don’t need discipline. They need a mother—and you don’t have one to give them. Pasensya na po (I’m sorry).”
My personal assistant, Augusto, called while I was still watching the taxi drive away.
“Ginoong Santos, there are no agencies left on the list. The last ones have classified us as an impossible case.”
“So we’ve exhausted professional options,” I answered weakly.
“There is one alternative, sir.”
“We can hire a housemaid (kasambahay)—at least to keep the house standing while we find another solution. Someone for the cooking and cleaning, lang po.”
I sighed. At that moment, anything that brought even the slightest sense of order, like a home-cooked meal, felt like a miracle.
“Do it. Anyone who agrees to come.”
Several kilometers away, in Tondo, a young woman named Luisa Reyes woke up at 5:30 a.m. She was 25 years old and carried the permanent exhaustion of someone who works for two and dreams for ten.
Her father, a retired tricycle driver.
Her mother, who sells kakanin (rice cakes) in the market.
Since she was 18, she had cleaned houses to pay for her child psychology night classes at a university in the city.
That morning, as she prepared to take two jeepneys and an LRT train to her usual job, she received a call from the agency she occasionally worked for.
“Luisa, we have an emergency. A mansion in Forbes Park. Double pay. The client needs someone ngayon na (right now).”
“Double? Talaga?” she asked, staring at the small pile of bills on the table—money for her tuition.
“Send me the address. I’ll be there in two hours.”
She didn’t know, of course, that she was heading to a house drowned in grief—and to the fury of six girls who had declared a family war on the world.
Two hours later, the taxi stopped in front of the tall wrought-iron gates of the Santos mansion.
Luisa stepped out in a simple white t-shirt and worn jeans. She carried an old bayong (woven bag), her straight hair tied in a practical ponytail, and dark eyes that seemed to observe everything with focused determination.
From the window on the top floor, six pairs of eyes watched her.
“Another victim,” Maricel muttered in a cold tone, crossing her arms.
The twins laughed in unison.
“We’ll see how long this kasambahay lasts.”
When the housemaid crossed the threshold, Ricardo (Dindo) received her in the office.
He tried to explain, but didn’t know where to start.
“The house needs a deep cleaning,” he finally said. “And the girls are going through a difficult time. Remember, trabaho lang (it’s just work). You are here to clean.”
“Opo, Mr. Augusto told me it would only be cleaning work, not childcare. My job is to maintain the house, not the children’s emotions,” Luisa responded calmly, her eyes meeting his.
“Exactly. Nothing more.”
Luisa didn’t look like a savior; she looked like a girl who knew how to mop a floor. She tied a kitchen apron over her clothes and picked up a bucket. The cleaning began in the kitchen, and it was soon obvious the children were watching her every move.
The first act of sabotage came quickly. While she was cleaning the pantry, she heard a giggle and turned just as Bea and Bianca, the six-year-old twins, scattered a bag of flour all over the immaculate, dark granite counter and floor. They stood back, hands covering their mouths, eyes daring her to shout.
Luisa didn’t shout. She just smiled—a slow, genuine smile.
“Ay, naku (Oh my goodness),” she said, picking up the broom. “That reminds me of how my Mama makes pandesal (bread rolls). A mess means good food is coming.”
She didn’t scold them. She didn’t even clean up the mess right away. Instead, she took a tiny pinch of the flour, mixed it with a drop of water, and drew a silly face on the counter. The twins, expecting a tearful exit, stared.
“If you two can help me sweep this up,” Luisa continued, “we can try to make a real mess later, the kind that smells like cinnamon.”
They hesitated. No one had ever offered them a compromise. They reluctantly grabbed a dustpan, the start of an unexpected truce.
The house, however, wasn’t just messy—it was emotionally toxic.
Lara, the 10-year-old, was the next challenge. Luisa found her hiding behind a velvet curtain, pulling at her hair in small, rhythmic tugs. Luisa sat on the floor, far enough away not to seem threatening.
“Your hair is so black and beautiful, like a kapok flower,” Luisa said softly, referencing the cotton-like strands that float in the air.
Lara looked up, her eyes puffy.
Luisa pulled out a piece of old ribbon from her bayong. “My Lola (grandmother) taught me how to make little braids to keep the bad thoughts from sneaking out of your head. Do you want to try?”
Lara simply shook her head. But then, she saw Luisa begin to braid a small piece of the curtain tassel. Luisa was not trying to fix her; she was just sharing a quiet, familiar ritual. For the first time in months, Lara stopped pulling.
The biggest wall was Maricel, the 12-year-old leader. She watched Luisa with constant contempt, the memory of her mother, Celeste, acting as a shield.
One afternoon, Luisa, having finished the general cleaning, began cooking a simple tinola (chicken soup). It was a dish that required patience. Maricel walked into the kitchen, looking for an argument.
“Why are you here? You’re just a maid. You don’t belong in my mother’s kitchen,” Maricel challenged, her voice cold.
Luisa didn’t flinch as she stirred the broth.
“That’s true. I am just a kasambahay,” Luisa replied, without malice. “But your mother’s kitchen is also your kitchen, and a kitchen is meant to be used, not just remembered. Do you want to taste? It needs more patis (fish sauce).”
Maricel was speechless. Luisa did not fight her; she simply acknowledged her grief and invited her to participate in life again.
The final turning point came that night. Julieta, the 9-year-old, woke up screaming from a panic attack, calling for Celeste. Dindo, the father, rushed to her room, freezing as usual in the hallway, his inability to comfort her a reflection of his own helplessness.
Luisa, however, moved past him.
She didn’t try to hold Julieta. Instead, she pulled a small rosary from her own neck, sat on the floor, and began to sing a gentle Filipino lullaby, an old kundiman her mother used to sing to her:
“Sa lundo ng duyan, ikaw ay matulog… Laging may bituin na gumagabay sa iyo…” (In the sway of the cradle, you sleep… There is always a star guiding you…)
It wasn’t a professional psychological technique. It was pure, unconditional presence and comfort. Julieta, hearing the soft, rhythmic sound, slowly quieted. Her panic subsided, replaced by the weight of sleep.
Dindo stood in the doorway, tears finally streaming down his face. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he was standing in the way of his daughters’ healing. He hadn’t been an enemy; he had been a ghost.
The next morning, Dindo called Luisa into his office, feeling smaller than the three-year-old, Isabelle, who was now holding Luisa’s hand in the hallway, softly whispering words.
“Luisa,” Dindo said, his voice thick with emotion. “I have gone through 37 nannies. None of them could survive two days. You have been here four days, and Isabelle is talking, Lara isn’t pulling her hair, and they asked you to teach them how to make bibingka (rice cake).”
He pushed a check across the table—a bonus ten times her promised wage.
“Please take this. And please, quit your cleaning job.”
Luisa looked at the check, then back at Dindo.
“I didn’t come here to be a yaya, Mr. Santos. I came to be a kasambahay.”
“And you did the impossible,” Dindo finished. “You didn’t replace their mother; you gave them a home again. You gave us permission to grieve, to cook, to live without guilt.”
He stood up and looked out the window at the garden, where his six daughters were surrounding Luisa, who was laughing as she helped the twins plant a small sampaguita (jasmine) bush—the official flower of the Philippines, symbolizing purity and hope.
“Luisa,” he said, turning back to her, his voice tender. “I’m not asking you to clean. I’m asking you to stay and help us grow. Not as an employee, but as part of our family’s life.”
Luisa smiled, a tear tracing the flour line the twins had drawn on her cheek earlier that morning. She wasn’t an employee anymore. She was the one who had cleared the debris of grief, proving that what the children needed wasn’t discipline, or even a replacement, but simply a presence warm enough to melt the ice around their broken hearts.
She took the check, folded it neatly, and placed it back on his desk.
“I will stay, Mr. Santos,” she said. “But I will keep the apron.”