Marco and I had been married for seven years. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but I endured everything for our child, for the family I chose to build. From the moment we got married, I agreed to live with his mother—my mother-in-law, who had suffered a stroke. Half of her body was paralyzed; she lay in bed all day and needed help with every meal and every dose of medicine.
At first, my thinking was simple: she was my husband’s mother, and I was the daughter-in-law—it was my responsibility to take care of her. I never imagined that the burden would grow so heavy it would completely exhaust me, and that the most painful part was carrying it alone, while the person who should have been my partner slowly drifted away.
Marco had a job. He would come home at night, say he was tired, and go straight to his phone. Everything—feeding, changing, medication—I did it all. He always said:
“You’re more used to taking care of Mom. If I do it, she’ll only suffer more.”
I didn’t complain. I told myself I’d handle the house and he’d handle work. Until one day, I saw a message on his phone:
“Come over again later. I’m happier with you than at home.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I simply asked him quietly:
“What are you planning to do about your mother—the one you’ve neglected for years?”
He said nothing. The next day, he left the house. I knew he had moved in with his woman. I called him, texted him—no reply. My mother-in-law stayed in her room, unaware of what was happening. She still thought her son was just busy and would come back.
I looked at her—the woman who had once criticized my every move, every meal I cooked, who had once said, “You’re not worthy to be my son’s wife”—and my throat tightened. I wanted to leave everything behind. But then I thought: as a human being, I should still have a conscience.
A week passed. I called Marco.
“Do you have time? I’ll bring Mom to you. You take care of her for now.”
The line was silent. After a few seconds, he hung up.
That afternoon, I carefully bathed my mother-in-law, changed her into clean clothes, and arranged her blanket. I packed all her medicines into a bag, along with her hospital medical records and her old health booklet.
That evening, I placed her into the wheelchair and gently said:
“Mom, I’m taking you to Marco. You’ll stay with him for now so the scenery can change a bit. It gets boring staying in one place.”
She smiled like a child. She had no idea I was returning her to the son who had chosen to abandon his responsibility.
When we arrived at a small condominium in Quezon City, I pressed the doorbell. Marco opened the door. Inside was the woman—wearing a silk nightgown, bright red lipstick.
Both of them froze when they saw me pushing the wheelchair, my mother-in-law looking neat and smiling.
Silently, I wheeled her into the living room, adjusted her blanket, and placed the bag of medicines on the table. The apartment smelled of expensive perfume—but it felt cold, lifeless.
Marco stammered:
“What are you doing?”
I smiled faintly… and then said one sentence—
a sentence that drained all the color from their faces.
The entire living room fell silent. The only sounds were the soft hum of the air conditioner and the gentle breathing of Mama Elena in the wheelchair.
Marco stood in front of me, his face pale. The woman behind him—Liza—couldn’t hide her unease. She stepped back half a step, as if wanting to disappear.
I slowly looked at Marco. There was no anger in my voice, no shouting. But every word I said was clear and heavy.
“I’m returning your mother to you.”
Marco’s eyes widened.
“What do you mean?” he asked, stammering.
I smiled—a tired but steady smile.
“I took care of her for seven years. I waited seven years for you to be a son. Now it’s your turn.”
Liza cleared her throat and forced a smile.
“Oh… Marco, you didn’t tell me that—”
Suddenly Mama Elena coughed. We all looked at her.
“Marco?” she called weakly. “Son… where are we?”
Marco stepped closer, his hands trembling.
“Mom… you’ll stay here for now—”
I didn’t let him finish. I picked up the bag of medicines and placed it on the table, taking out the contents one by one: maintenance medications, diapers, feeding syringes, prescriptions, medical records.
“This is the time for her medicine. Blood pressure meds at six in the morning. Stroke medication at noon. No salty food. She needs to be turned every two hours to prevent bedsores.”
I looked at Liza.
“Do you know any of that?”
She couldn’t answer.
Marco looked at me, almost whispering.
“You can’t leave Mom here. We’re not ready.”
I laughed softly—bitterly.
“I wasn’t ready either. But you left her with me.”
Suddenly, Mama Elena spoke.
“Marco…” her voice trembled. “Who is that woman?”
Marco froze.
“Mom… she’s just a friend—”
“Don’t make me a fool,” the old woman said sharply. “My body is paralyzed, not my brain.”
She turned to me.
“I know, my child,” she said softly. “I know he has another woman.”
My eyes widened.
“Mom…?”
“And not just that,” she continued. “I also know he was going to leave. A long time ago.”
The room fell silent.
“I hear his phone calls at night. The promises he never kept to you. And do you know why I never spoke up?”
I shook my head, tears filling my eyes.
“Because I was ashamed,” she said, crying. “He’s my son, but he left his responsibility to you.”
Marco collapsed onto the sofa, holding his head.
Suddenly, Liza stepped forward.
“Enough,” she said, her voice shaking. “Marco, you didn’t tell me it was like this.”
“Liza—”
“No,” she cut him off. “I thought you were already separated. I thought you had no more responsibilities.”
She took a deep breath and looked at me.
“I’m the one leaving,” she said firmly. “I won’t enter a life full of lies.”
She grabbed her bag, and before leaving, she turned to Marco.
“A man who can abandon his own mother—will abandon me someday too.”
The door opened. She left without looking back.
“You shouldn’t have done this!” Marco shouted at me. “You ruined my life!”
I looked at him—this time with strength.
“No, Marco. You ruined your own life.”
I stepped closer.
“Do you know the difference between us? I left with a conscience. You were left behind with the truth.”
I stood and turned to Mama Elena.
“Mom,” I said gently. “I’ve done all that I can.”
The old woman was crying.
“My child…” her hand trembled. “I’m sorry.”
I held her hand.
“You’re forgiven. A long time ago.”
Before I finally left, I handed Marco an envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Documents,” I replied. “I’ve already filed for legal separation. And by the way—”
I paused.
“Your mother’s pension is under her name. You can’t touch it. And I have a legal document stating that you are now her primary caregiver.”
His eyes widened.
“What?!”
“I took care of her for seven years without complaint. Now, the law will remind you of your responsibility.”
Months passed.
I now live in a small apartment with my child. Quiet. Peaceful.
One day, there was a knock on the door.
It was Mama Elena—accompanied by a caregiver.
“I chose to enter a home care facility,” she said. “I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.”
She smiled at me.
“You are my true child.”
I cried as I hugged her.
I later heard the news:
Everyone left him. He was forced to sell the condo. Now, he is alone.
And me?
I learned that kindness is not weakness.
And responsibility—when you run from it—will come back heavier.
Not everyone who stays silent loses.
And not everyone who leaves gives up.
Sometimes, the heaviest punishment of all
is simply returning to someone the responsibility they ran away from.