Marcus and I have been married for 7 years. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but I put up with everything for our son, for the family I chose to form. Ever since we got married, I’ve agreed to live with her mother—my mother-in-law has had a stroke, is half body paralyzed, has just been bedridden all day and needs to be taken care of with every meal and medication.

 

mother, I was the daughter-in-law—it was my responsibility to take care of her. I never imagined that that weight would reach the point where I would be exhausted, and the most painful—I would be a burden alone, while the person I was supposed to be with was slowly slipping away.

Marcus had a job. He came home late at night, tired, and went straight to the phone. Everything—feeding, changing, medicine—I do. He always said:

“You have to take better care of your mother. If I did, it would only make it worse.”

I didn’t complain. I told myself that I was going to take care of the house, and that I was going to work. One day, I received a message on my phone:

“You’ll be here again later. I’m happier with you than at home.”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a fuss. I asked him quietly:

“What do you intend to do with your mother—whom you have neglected for years?”

He was silent. The next day he left the house. I knew he had moved in with his wife. I called, I texted—there was no answer. My wife was in the room, not knowing what was going on. He still thought his son was busy and would come back.

I looked at her—the woman who once criticized me for every move, at every meal, who once said “you don’t deserve to be my daughter’s wife”—and I was blown away. I wanted to leave it all behind. But I have to admit that as a human being, we have to have a conscience.

A week passed. I called Mark.

“Do you have time? I will bring my mother to you. You have to take care of it first.”

The line was silent. After a few seconds, he nodded.

In the evening, I carefully bathed my mother-in-law, changed into clean clothes, arranged the sheets. I put all my medications, medical records from the hospital, even her old health booklet in a bag.

In the evening, I put him in a wheelchair and said softly:

“Mom, I’m going to take you to Mark. You have to live there to change the environment. It’s also frustrating to be in the same place.”

He smiled, like a child. He didn’t know I was giving him back to his son who chose to abdicate responsibility.

When we arrived at a small condominium in Quezon City, I rang the doorbell. Marcus opened the door. Inside, there was the woman—dressed in a silk nightgown, bright red lipstick.

They both stiffened when they saw me pushing in a wheelchair, my mother-in-law looking good and smiling.

I silently pushed the wheelchair into the living room, adjusted the blanket, and placed the medicine bag on the table. The house was fragrant with expensive perfumes—but cold, lifeless.

Marcus asked:

“What are you doing?”

I smiled softly… and then a sentence was spoken—
a sentence that made the faces of both of them discolor.

 

 

The whole room was silent. All that could be heard was the faint sound of the air conditioner and Mama Elena’s soft breathing in the wheelchair.

Marco was standing in front of me, his face pale. The woman behind him—Liza—couldn’t hide the loss. He took a step back, as if he wanted to disappear from the scene.

I looked over at Mark. There was no anger in my voice, no screaming. But every word I say is clear and heavy.

“I’m bringing your mother back to you.”

Mark’s eyes widened.
“What do you mean?” he asked sternly.

I smiled—a tired smile, but whole.

“I took care of him for seven years. We have been waiting 7 years to have a baby. Now it’s time for you.”

Liza nodded, trying to smile.
“Oh… Marco, you didn’t say that—”

Suddenly, Elena’s mother was stunned. We all looked at him.

“Mark?” he called softly. “Son… Where are we?”

Mark approached, his hand trembling.
“Ma… Here you go—”

I didn’t finish him. I grabbed the bag of medicine and laid it on the table, taking out the contents one by one: maintenance meds, diapers, feeding syringes, prescriptions, medical records.

“This is the time of his medicine. Every morning the BP lowerer is lowered. The stroke is at 12 o’clock. Salt is forbidden. “Your body needs to be cleaned every two hours to keep it from getting wet.”

I looked over at Liza.

“Alam mo ba ‘yan?”

He couldn’t answer.

Marcus looked at me, almost stunned.
“You can’t leave your mother here. We weren’t ready.”

I laughed—weakly, bitterly.

“I wasn’t ready at the time. But you left him with me.”

Suddenly, Elena’s mother spoke.

“Marco…” Her voice trembled. “Who is that woman?”

Nanigas si Marco.
“But… Kaibigan Lang—”

“Don’t make me feel bad,” the older man’s voice came suddenly. “My body is paralyzed, not my brain.”

He turned to me.

“I know, Jack,” he said softly. “I know he has a wife.”

My eyes widened.
“Mom…?”

“That’s not all,” he continued. “I knew he was going to leave. It’s been a long time.”

Everyone was silent.

“I hear his calls at night. Promises that he did not keep to you. Do you know why I didn’t speak?”

I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes.

“I’m embarrassed,” she said with tears in her eyes. “He’s my son, but he’s left the responsibility to you.”

Marco sat down on the couch, holding his head.

Suddenly, Liza stepped forward.

“That’s right,” her voice trembled. “Mark, you didn’t say this was the case.”

“Liza—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I thought you were separated. I thought you had no responsibility.”

He took a deep breath and looked at me.

“I’m leaving,” he said bluntly. “I will not enter into a life full of lies.”

He grabbed his bag and before he could leave, he turned to face Mark.

“A man who can leave his own mother—will leave me one day, too.”

The door opened. He left. There is no mistake.

“You shouldn’t have done that!” cried Mark. “You ruined my life!”

I looked at him—now, there was courage.

“No, Mark. You’re ruining yourself.”

I approached him.

“You know what’s the difference between us? I left with a conscience. You are left with the truth.”

I stood up and turned to face Elena’s mother.

“Mom,” I said softly. “I’ve done what I could.”

The old man was crying.

“Daughter…” Her hand was shaking. “Excuse me.”

I grabbed his hand.
“You’ve been forgiven. It’s been a long time.”

 

Before I left, I handed Marco an envelope.

“Ano ‘to?” tanong niya.

“Papers,” I answered. “I have filed for legal separation. And by the way—”

Huminto like sandals.

“Your mother’s pension?” It was named after him. You can’t move. And I have a letter that you are his primary caregiver now.”

Her eyes widened.
“What?!”

“I’ve been in foster care for seven years with no complaints. And now the law is a reminder of your responsibility.”

Months passed.

I live in a small apartment with my son. Silence. Peaceful.

One day, there was a knock.

Mama Elena—with a caregiver.

“I chose to go into home care,” she said. “I don’t want to be a burden to anybody.”

He smiled at me.

“You are my real son.”

I cried hugging him.

I heard the news:
Everyone left him. The condo was forced to be sold. Now, alone.

And me?

I have learned that virtue is not a weakness.
And the responsibility—when shirked—will come back even heavier.

Not all of them are silent.
And not everyone who leaves gives up.
Sometimes, the most severe punishment—is simply to restore to the person the responsibility he has shirked.