I punished her by locking her in the bodega for defying my mother… by sunrise, the truth knocked the wind out of me.
I dragged her out of the bedroom and shoved her into the storage room—the bodega—just because she dared to contradict her mother-in-law. But the next morning, when I opened the door… she wasn’t there. And in that instant, I knew she had perhaps crossed a line from which there would be no return.
I was so sure she wouldn’t dare leave. Her family lives in Cebu, over an hour away by plane from where we live in Manila. Here in the city, she knows no one but me. She doesn’t even have full access to our bank accounts. With that confidence, I slept soundly, resting my head on a fluffy pillow in the air-conditioned room, right beside my mother.
My mom, Mommy Tessie, always saw herself as a martyr—the matriarch who sacrificed everything—and she expected my wife to obey her in everything. I always thought: “As a son, it’s my duty to take care of my parents. A wife just has to endure a little bit; what’s wrong with that?”
My wife, Elena, is from the Visayas. We met while studying at a university in Manila. When we talked about getting married, Mommy Tessie opposed it from the start: “That girl’s family lives too far away. It’s going to be a waste of money every time they want to visit or go home for Christmas.”
Elena cried, but she told her with a firm voice: “Don’t worry, Ma’am. I will be your daughter-in-law and I will take care of your family. I might only visit my parents once a year.”
In the end, I begged, and my mother accepted reluctantly. But since then, every time I wanted to take Elena and our son to visit my in-laws in Cebu, she would invent some excuse or sudden illness.
When our first son was born, Elena began to change. There were differences in how to raise him. I thought: “Mommy just wants the best for her apo (grandchild); there’s nothing wrong with listening to her.” But Elena wouldn’t yield. Sometimes they argued over simple things like breastfeeding versus formula, or superstitious beliefs versus doctor’s orders. Mommy Tessie would get angry, slam plates in the kitchen, and then claim her blood pressure was shooting up because of the stress.
Recently, when we brought the baby to Mommy’s house, the situation worsened. The baby had a high fever and started convulsing. Mommy Tessie blamed Elena immediately: “Don’t you know how to take care of my grandson? How could you let him get sick like this?”
I believed her. I turned my frustration toward Elena. She no longer hid her exhaustion.
That night, Elena didn’t sleep a wink, nursing the child. I, exhausted from the drive, went to sleep in my parents’ guest room.
The next morning, relatives from the province arrived for a visit. Mommy Tessie handed Elena a crumpled 500-peso bill and told her to go to the palengke (wet market) to buy ingredients for a feast. I saw Elena was dead on her feet. She was about to say something when Mommy shouted: “If I go to the market, people will gossip that you’re lazy! I was awake all night too, worrying. You are the daughter-in-law, take charge of the kitchen!”
Elena, with no strength left, replied: “I was the one holding your grandson all night. These guests are yours, not mine. I am your daughter-in-law, not your katulong (maid).”
Mommy Tessie looked at me, her eyes wide with indignation. I felt deep hiya (shame) in front of the relatives. Blinded by anger, I grabbed Elena by the arm and dragged her to the bodega at the back of the house. No mattress, no electric fan. I told her: “I have to be hard on you so you learn to respect my mother.”
The next day, when I opened the door… Elena was gone.
I panicked. Mommy called the whole family to help search the subdivision. A neighbor, Aling Marites, told us: “I saw her last night crying, dragging a suitcase. I gave her money for a Grab car to the airport. She said you people treated her like a servant… and that she’s filing a case against you.”
My blood ran cold. Finally, Elena answered my call. Her voice was icy: “I’m at my parents’ house in Cebu. In a few days, I’m filing for Annulment and a VAWC case (Violence Against Women and Children). Our son stays with me. The law is on my side.”
Mommy Tessie screamed in the background: “That’s just pure drama! She won’t dare. It’s too expensive!”
But I knew better: Elena was no longer the same woman.
Three days later, a brown envelope arrived. Inside were legal documents from a law firm in Cebu. The grounds: “Psychological violence and economic abuse by the husband and his family.”
Mommy’s blood was boiling: “How dare she? A broken family is a shame! Let her go! She’ll come crawling back when the money runs out!”
But I didn’t feel anger. What I felt was fear.
Under Philippine law, custody of children under seven years old almost automatically goes to the mother. If this pushed through, I would lose my son.
My relatives in Manila and Batangas wouldn’t stop talking: “Paolo, you were a fool.” “How could you lock your wife in a storage room? That is abuse, plain and simple.” “Everyone knows now. Who will respect you after this?”
I sank into shame.
That night, I video-called Elena. She appeared on the screen with our son sleeping soundly on her chest. I broke inside. “Elena… let me see him. I miss him.”
She stared straight into the camera, her eyes piercing mine: “Now you remember your son? And what about me, when you locked me up like garbage? It’s too late, Paolo. I’m not coming back to you.”
The following days were a blur. I couldn’t work. I had nightmares that Elena was taking the boy away and I couldn’t run fast enough to catch them.
I realized: for two years, I only listened to my mother, never my wife. I didn’t protect her. I didn’t defend her. She left everything in Cebu for me… and I betrayed her.
One morning, my Tita Carmen approached me: “Look, ijo. When a woman files a case like VAWC, it’s very hard to turn back. You only have two paths: accept it… or ask for forgiveness for real. And you better hurry, because this is no longer just a fight, it’s about your family’s future.”
I took a deep breath. Mom, the relatives, the social pressure… it all weighed on my shoulders.
But my fear was singular: never hearing my son call me Papa every morning again.
That night, I went out to the patio, looked at the Manila sky, and understood that the time had come to do what I had never done before:
Stand up to my mother.
And fight to win back my wife and my son.