It was Monday night when Papa suddenly had an attack while we were eating. He was struggling to breathe, like something heavy was pressing on his chest. We immediately took him to the provincial hospital. The doctor said he had a blocked artery in his heart, and it was dangerous because the hospital lacked equipment.
I stayed up all night, sitting by his bedside, listening to the sound of the machine — beep, beep, beep — as if every sound was piercing my chest.
Mama died early, and Papa raised me alone. He was my world.
At nine o’clock in the morning, I went out to the hallway to answer the call. On the screen, the name appeared: “Mama Lorna” — my mother-in-law.
The moment I answered, she immediately yelled:
“Lyn! Where are you? Why haven’t you come home to cook lunch for Ryan and me? I told you to cook sinigang na bangus today!”
I took a deep breath. “Ma, I’m at the hospital. Papa had an attack. He’s in the ICU right now.”
But her response was sharper than a knife: “You have many relatives there, why does it have to be you? Come home already, take care of your husband. You can visit your father tonight if you want!”
I remained silent. Inside the ICU, I saw Papa holding my hand while sleeping, a tube in his nose, pale.
I bit my lip to hold back tears.
The 22nd call, it was already twelve o’clock noon. I walked out to the end of the hallway, answering with my hand trembling.
“Lyn! Do you want Ryan and me to starve? Come home now! Cook, and then you can go back to the hospital if you want!”
I took a deep breath. I looked out the window, at the glaring sun.
I spoke softly, slowly, every word heavy: “Ma… I am not coming home.”
“Ma… I am not coming home.”
Silence on the other line. Just a few seconds, but it felt like forever.
I heard her voice, mixed with annoyance and confusion.
“What did you say? What do you mean, Lyn?”
I closed my eyes, and for the first time, I didn’t back down.
“Ma, Papa raised me alone. While others were sleeping, he worked all night just so I could study. Now he’s in the ICU, and he might not wake up. If you want to be angry, that’s up to you. But right now… I am not leaving his side.“
Silence again. At the end of the line, I only heard a faint sigh.
I didn’t say anything more. I hung up the phone.
I sat down by Papa’s bedside, holding his cold hand.
“Papa, don’t let go, okay… I still owe you, the debt of a child who hasn’t been able to repay you yet.”
Two days passed. Mama Lorna stopped calling me.
Until one afternoon, while I was wiping Papa’s forehead, I heard someone enter the room.
When I turned around — it was Mama Lorna.
She was carrying two bags of food, with soup and fruits included.
She approached silently, placing them on the table.
“I’m sorry, Lyn,” she said softly. “I didn’t know… how painful it is to see your parent suffering. My father also had an attack before, and I… I wasn’t by his side either. I regret it until now.”
I couldn’t speak. She walked closer to me, gently touched my shoulder.
“I’ll watch over your father first. Go home, get some rest. I’ll stay here.”
I cried. The woman who called me lazy, unsympathetic, was now watching over my father herself.
A moment later, Papa opened his eyes, whispering faintly:
“Daughter… thank you… and thank you too, Lorna…”
For the first time, I saw my mother-in-law smile — genuinely, not forced.
And there I realized, sometimes, compassion and understanding are more powerful than anger.