Death doesn’t come all at once; it arrives in spoonfuls. That was how the days felt for Aling Teresita Arriola , mother of Miguel , a respected businessman in Intramuros, Manila. Every morning, in front of the mirrored aparador in the living room, she barely recognized herself. The baro’t saya dresses that used to fit her now swam around her body. Her skin, which once held the Sunday glow of church and sweets, had become pale, like the marble on the azotea where she spent most of her time alone.
Miguel said his mother was just tired, due to age, and this was confirmed by Jhoana , his wife, in a tone that was both calming and piercing. “She’s frail, my love. I make sure she eats well.” “You take care of it, then,” Miguel repeatedly reassured himself, failing to notice the poison hidden in the word. What Jhoana called “care” was truly control. In that old house with high ceilings, sturdy poste, and cold narra flooring, time seemed to move slower. The kitchen clock, hanging on a plate painted with calachuchi flowers, marked the hours with excessive patience.
The sound of the spoon hitting the porcelain was like a moan. Aling Teresita sat at the table, her trembling hands resting on her bamboo cane. Lola Pining , the longtime maid, watched her with eyes full of concern and prayer. She had learned to look without speaking.
Jhoana served the dish with a careful smile, so discreet it was terrifying. “Go on, Aling Teresita, this is your usual, your light tinola.” “I’m not very hungry, anak.” “The doctor said you need to eat,” Jhoana replied. No doctor had said any such thing, but Miguel, blind with affection and haste, believed every word, and every spoonful his mother took was a bitter victory for Jhoana.
The days became like this. The house smelled of medicine, watered-down lugaw (rice porridge), and expensive perfume from the duty-free. Lola Pining saw everything—the bowls often left nearly full. Aling Teresita’s voice gradually diminished, while Jhoana’s perfect hairstyle and her frozen smile remained constant. The elder spoke less and less. She used to talk to the plants in the halamanan (garden), giggling softly while listening to the radio on the old transistor. Now, only silence remained. Silence and confusion that made her dizzy.
Sometimes Aling Teresita would ask, “Lola Pining, what day is it today?” “Monday, Aling Teresita. Still Monday,” Lola Pining would answer, struggling not to break her voice, because she noticed things: juice with an odd taste, pills in swapped bottles, details that would escape anyone, except for those who watched a single person slowly vanish day by day. When Miguel came home late from meetings, he would see his mother sleeping on the solihiya sofa and think she looked peaceful. “She’s just resting, my love. It’s good that you always take such good care of her,” Jhoana would say, pouring red wine and shining internally.
A son’s love and a wife’s malice co-existed under the same roof, like light and shadow on the same wall. In Aling Teresita’s room, an old portrait of her late husband, Don Ramon, looked directly at the bed. She would whisper to him, “I’m trying, my dear. I’m trying to hold on.” But the body no longer obeyed. Her steps were short, her skin thin, her voice trembled, and her eyes began to lose their luster, as if fading from the inside out.
Jhoana, on the other hand, was flourishing. She organized dinners, greeted the neighbors in Intramuros, and repeated that she cared for her mother-in-law like her own mother. Who would doubt such an elegant, well-mannered, perfect woman in her social circle? Years ago, Aling Teresita used to prepare tsokolate and ensaymada for the neighbors. Now, the house only smelled of sadness. Between the clinking of the spoon and the distant whisper of the kalesa on the street, the question was born that the onlookers didn’t know they needed to hear.
What is a woman capable of doing to get what she wants when no one is watching her?
Days passed as if nothing changed, but Lola Pining saw it. Carefully keeping her apron always clean, she held a memory in her eyes that no one could erase. She saw her mistress increasingly corbado (bent), her face thinner, the plate with less food, and Jhoana, as flawless, as sweet, too sweet. “Lola Pining, don’t put too much salt in the lugaw.” “The doctor said it’s dangerous at her age,” Jhoana commanded. “Yes, Ma’am, and less meat. She has a sensitive liver.” Lola Pining lowered her head. She knew it wasn’t about care; it was control.
And that control slowly became a prison. Aling Teresita, who once walked the house with firm steps, now barely managed with the help of the cane. The metal hitting the baldosa (floor tiles) created a mournful echo, a reminder of what she was losing: strength, autonomy, voice. Sometimes she would stand at the window overlooking the inner patio. The jacaranda, which always bloomed purple in the spring, was now dry. And Aling Teresita would whisper, “Are you tired too, friend?”
Jhoana would come in and interrupt her thoughts. “Did you take your medicine, Aling Teresita?” “Yes.” “From which box?” “The one on the table.” “Oh, no, not that one anymore. I reorganized them. It’s better if you just leave it to me. I arrange everything.” With one motion, she took the glass and the pills. She smiled and disappeared down the pasilyo (hallway).
Lola Pining watched from the doorway, helpless. She saw Aling Teresita confused, lost, forgetting the hours, the names. Who would believe her? Who would dare question the wife of the company’s vice president? The days remained the same, as if time had stopped in the Arriola house. The dining room clock ticked every minute with a heavy sound, as if counting the spoons of a slow agony.
Aling Teresita no longer went out to the courtyard. The cane was her only companion, and every step echoed on the mosaic with a sound that mingled with the distant song of the maya birds. Jhoana said she shouldn’t get tired, that the midday sun could harm her, but Lola Pining knew that confinement hurt more than any sunbeam.
“Aling Teresita, why don’t we go out to the patio for a moment?” she suggested one morning, opening the curtains. “Oh, Lola Pining, I’m afraid I’ll fall.” “I’ll just help you get some air.” “No, anak, if Jhoana finds out, she’ll get angry.” Before that phrase. If Jhoana finds out. Aling Teresita used to be in charge of everything; now she even asked permission to breathe. Lola Pining pretended to obey, but her gaze grew increasingly suspicious. She noticed Jhoana controlled every bottle, every pill, every meal. Even the doctors, the lifelong one, Dr. Santos, no longer appeared around the house. Jhoana said he charged too much, that she had found someone better, but no one knew anything about it.
That night, Lola Pining went up to leave the chamomile tea tray. The door was ajar. Aling Teresita was whispering in her sleep: “I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to sleep.” Lola Pining slowly approached. On the table were two glasses, one with clear water, the other with a faint cloudy tint. Lola Pining’s stomach tightened. She took the glass, smelled it—she didn’t know what it was, but something in the smell made her tremble. She put it back just as she heard footsteps in the hallway. Jhoana appeared in her wine-colored silk robe, holding a fashion magazine.
“What are you doing here, Lola Pining?” “I brought the tea, Ma’am.” “Leave it there. I’ll take care of it.” The voice was soft, but full of that kind of authority that doesn’t shout; it imposes itself. Lola Pining went down quietly while her heart pounded in her chest.
The next morning, Aling Teresita could barely get up. Her eyes were wide, and her hands were cold. Jhoana was eating breakfast while humming a song. “How did my mother-in-law wake up?” she asked casually. “It must be the pressure. I’ll give her her little pill.” Lola Pining saw her from the kitchen open the medicine drawer and take out a small, unlabeled bottle. Jhoana took a glass of calamansi juice, and with her body blocking the view, she poured two drops. Then she took the silver spoon; everything was silent. “Here, Aling Teresita, slowly.”
Aling Teresita took a sip and frowned. “It’s bitter.” “It’s because of the pill, my love. The doctor said it helps with relaxation,” Jhoana smiled. Lola Pining clenched the fabric of her apron in her hands. Every fiber of her body wanted to scream, but fear weighed more heavily.
A few hours later, Miguel arrived home from work. He had a bouquet of gloriosa lilies and a noble fatigue in his eyes. “How is my queen?” he asked, kissing his mother’s forehead. “Anak, I’m so tired. You look thin, huh?” Jhoana answered before she could, “She just hasn’t been eating well, but I’m taking care of her, don’t worry.” Miguel smiled and hugged his wife. Lola Pining watched them from the doorway with her heart full of rage. Love could also be a blindfold.
That night the silence was even longer. Lola Pining couldn’t sleep. From her room, she listened to the clock tick, mixed with a faint sound, the scraping of a spoon against a glass. She got up, opened the door just a few centimeters; she saw Jhoana crossing the hallway, barefoot, holding a bottle. The light from the ref (refrigerator) illuminated her face. Calm, precision, coolness. Lola Pining held her breath. Jhoana placed the glass on Aling Teresita’s tray and left the room without looking back.
When silence returned, Lola Pining entered. The old woman was asleep and breathing heavily. On the table, the glass was still warm. Two drops floated on the surface, forming a strange pattern, like a small whirlpool. Lola Pining remained still. Looking at what she didn’t understand, yet what she already knew. Someone was slowly killing Aling Teresita.
The next morning, the whole house smelled of coffee and lies. Jhoana, as impeccable as ever, greeted her husband with a kiss. “Good morning, my love.” “Thank you, my life. I’ll take care of my mother. I always take care of her,” she replied, looking pointedly at Lola Pining. And when the door closed, the maid silently swore to herself that she wouldn’t let the old woman go without a fight. She didn’t know when or how, but something inside her had just awakened.
Weeks passed in a deceptive silence. From the outside, the Arriola house looked like a perfect home. White facade, bougainvillea on the fence, a wooden gate always clean, but inside the air had become heavy, so heavy that even the curtains seemed tired of moving. Aling Teresita ate less and less. Sometimes she would take two spoons of lugaw and leave the plate full. Other times, she wouldn’t even sit up. “I’m not hungry, Lola Pining,” she whispered. “Everything tastes strange to me, metallic.” Lola Pining swallowed. She had also noticed the acidic smell coming from the glasses, the cloudy color of the water, but she had no evidence, only intuition, and the fear of losing her job sealed her lips.
One afternoon, while sweeping the pasilyo, she heard Jhoana’s voice talking on the phone. “Yes, yes, the will remains the same, but if she deteriorates, everything will go to Miguel’s name, and you know that’s in my interest too.” Silence, laughter. “Oh, don’t be overdone. No one suspects anything.”
Lola Pining stood still as her heart pounded. She knew she shouldn’t be listening, but it was too late. That phrase stuck to her like a thorn. No one suspects anything.
That night she went to the kitchen for a glass of water. The clock was almost midnight. From the window, she saw Jhoana in the halamanan under the yellowish light of the lantern. She was holding a jar in her hand. She opened the lid, poured something into a glass, and held it. Slowly, Lola Pining hid behind the curtain, watching without breathing. Jhoana climbed the stairs with silent steps, leaving behind a silence that smelled of death.
The next morning, Aling Teresita didn’t wake up. “Her blood pressure spiked,” Jhoana explained. “I already called the doctor,” but no doctor came, just a messenger with a bag of new medicines indicated by the specialist—no prescription, no signature. Lola Pining secretly took them when Jhoana left. She read the labels. They were calmatives, strong, not suitable for the elderly. Her blood ran cold.
When Miguel returned, she tried to tell him something. “Sir Miguel, can I speak to you?” “Yes, Lola Pining, is something wrong?” “It’s about your mother.” “What about her?” “I believe those remedies…” Jhoana walked in with a cold smile. “What remedies, Lola Pining?” “Nothing, Ma’am. I’m just worried, my love,” Jhoana interjected, stroking her husband’s arm. “But I told the doctor, sometimes she gets confused with the dosage.” Miguel smiled with confidence and changed the subject. Lola Pining lowered her head, but inside, something was boiling.
That night, Aling Teresita woke up in distress. Lola Pining called out to her in a separate voice. “Everything hurts, and I feel like I’m floating.” “Do you want me to call the doctor?” “No,” she whispered with her eyes half-closed. “Just don’t leave me alone.” Lola Pining hugged her; she felt her body was light, almost weightless, and at that moment, she understood. It wasn’t sickness; it was poison.
The next morning, the tension could be cut with a knife. Jhoana prepared coffee as if nothing had happened. “The woman still hasn’t come down, right?” she asked Lola Pining. “No, she’s weak. Can I bring her breakfast?” “It’s not necessary. I’ll do it.” Lola Pining pretended to agree but waited. When Jhoana carried the tray, she followed slowly, barefoot, without making a sound. From the open door, she saw what she needed to see. Jhoana opened the jar, poured three drops into the juice, and stirred it with the silver spoon. Then she adjusted the tablecloth and smiled into the mirror like someone preparing before a show.
Lola Pining turned around, suppressing a scream. She ran to the kitchen and sat on a chair. Her heart was beating like a tambol (drum). I need evidence. If she said anything without showing them, no one would believe her. If she kept quiet, Aling Teresita would die.
That afternoon, when Jhoana went out to the beauty salon, Lola Pining went up to the mistress’s room. On the table, the clear jar was still warm. It had an artificially sweet smell. Lola Pining searched for the old cellphone she kept hidden in her apron and took a picture. That was it. A blurry image, but enough to start. Then she adjusted the blankets and gave Aling Teresita clean water. “Fight, Aling Teresita. I’m going to do something.” The old woman looked at her with glistening eyes. “Don’t worry, anak.” “If I don’t interfere, she will die,” Lola Pining replied with a lump in her throat. That night for the first time, she didn’t pray to sleep; she prayed to wake up alive the next day.
The following week, a storm began in Intramuros. The gray sky was reflected in the old windows, and the sound of the rain seemed to mark the pulse of the house. Aling Teresita was still weak, but something had changed in her eyes. Now she looked at Jhoana with fear and a kind of terrifying clarity. “I don’t want that lugaw,” she said one night, pushing the plate away. “Oh, Aling Teresita, why? I prepared it myself.” “I don’t trust you.” Jhoana let out a faint laugh. “She’s delirious. It’s age; she says ugly things.” But Lola Pining listened from the kitchen, and her skin crawled. She knew Aling Teresita finally understood everything.
The next day, Miguel rushed down the stairs with his phone in hand. “Love, the engineer changed my meeting. I’ll be back late.” “Don’t worry,” Jhoana replied, kissing him. “I’ll take care of your mother.” “Thank you, my life. I don’t know what I would do without you.” And it was that exact phrase, so often repeated, that made Lola Pining tremble. He doesn’t know what he would do without her, because he doesn’t know what she does when he’s not around.
By late afternoon, the rain had stopped. The smell of wet earth drifted in through the open windows. Lola Pining was washing dishes when she heard a sound upstairs. She ran upstairs, her heart in her throat. Aling Teresita’s room door was locked from the outside. “Aling Teresita!” Silence. “Aling Teresita, can you hear me?” A faint groan answered. “Lola Pining, I’m thirsty.” Lola Pining tried the door. She wouldn’t give up. She looked for the spare key, but the drawer where it always was was empty. Then she understood. Jhoana had removed it. In desperation, she hit the wood. “Aling Teresita, don’t sleep!”
The voice on the other side was barely a thread. “Water, bitter.”
Lola Pining ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and returned upstairs. She placed the tip between the frame and the lock and pushed with all her might. With a wrenching sound, the door opened. Inside, Aling Teresita was lying on the floor, pale, with an overturned glass. Lola Pining knelt and took her in her arms. “Don’t worry, Aling Teresita, it’s over.” She replaced the glass, whispering, “Shh, don’t speak, I’ll take care of it.”
When Jhoana returned, she was met with a scene that felt like a slap. “What happened here?” she asked, feigning surprise. “The Matanda (Old Woman) fell,” Lola Pining replied defiantly. “Diyos ko (My God), poor thing, did you give her the medicine?” “No, Ma’am, I didn’t give her anything.” Their eyes crossed, and although neither spoke, there was no turning back.
That night, Aling Teresita slept with a slow heart. Lola Pining stayed by her side, guarding her as if she were her own mother. She held her cellphone in her hands. The photo of the bottle was still there, but she needed more. I need to see her in action.
The next day, the sun was dark, but the atmosphere in the house was also dark. Miguel left early, and Jhoana began to clean the kitchen in her usual silence. Lola Pining pretended to clean the room, but she left her cellphone on the shelf, carefully pointing at the table. Her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it. At 11:30, Jhoana entered, opened the drawer, took out the bottle, poured two drops into a glass, and stirred it with a teaspoon.
Everything was recorded; everything was clear. Lola Pining held her breath until the woman left the room, and then ran to check the video. There was the evidence, the exact moment Jhoana poisoned the water. She didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Fear mingled with euphoria. Finally, I have a way to prove it.
That afternoon, she waited for Miguel to arrive. When she saw him walk in with his briefcase over his shoulder, she nervously approached. “Sir Miguel, I need you to see something.” “What is it, Lola Pining?” “Just look first. Then tell me if I’m crazy.” She showed him the cellphone. In the first seconds, he frowned, not understanding. Later, when he saw his wife pouring the liquid into the glass, the expression vanished from his face. “No, it can’t be.” “I saw it many times, Sir, but until now, I recorded it.” “What is that? What is she giving my mother?” “I don’t know, but she’s killing her slowly.”
Miguel couldn’t speak. He squeezed his cellphone tightly, his eyes blazing with anger and guilt. “No one knows yet,” he finally said. “Let me handle this my way.” “But, Sir, please, Lola Pining, I beg you.” She nodded. As she watched him go up the stairs, she sensed that something enormous was about to happen. That night the house was not the same. For the first time, the truth was breathing inside.
That night, Miguel ate silently. The storm had passed, but the noise inside his head was louder than any thunder. Jhoana served the sinigang, as always, and asked in her honeyed tone, “Are you okay, my love?” “Yes,” he replied without looking at her. “And your mother is resting. That’s good, the poor thing. She suffered so much.” Her words sounded weak, but each one was a pin sticking into his conscience. Miguel no longer saw her the same way. Every gesture, every smile seemed like a mask to him. While she spoke of love, he only remembered the video, the shine of the jar, the two drops slowly falling, the movement of the spoon, the image of the cruelest deception.
Lola Pining couldn’t stop looking at the clock from the kitchen. Every minute that passed was eternal. She knew Miguel had watched the video, but she didn’t know what he would do with it. She feared he might not move. Because love, she thought, when blind, could also be an accomplice.
The next morning, the sun shone through the curtains of Aling Teresita’s room. She opened her eyes with effort. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel dizzy. Miguel sat beside her, holding a cup of coffee. “Anak, didn’t you go to work?” “No. Today, Mother, I want to take care of you.” “You’ll take care of me. That’s odd. You said I was exaggerating.” “Not anymore, Mother. Now I know you were right.” Aling Teresita looked at him confused and then smiled with relief in her eyes. It was as if the soul was slowly returning to her body.
On the ground floor, Jhoana was talking on the phone, unaware of everything. “Yes, everything is controlled. No, Miguel doesn’t suspect anything.” Until she heard the footsteps coming down the stairs, she immediately hung up, feigning a smile. “Love, I made almusal (breakfast) for you.” “I’m not hungry,” he said firmly. She was confused by the tone. He had never spoken to her like that. She tried to approach, but he stepped back. The silence that followed was louder than any shout. Jhoana watched him nervously. “Is something wrong?” “No.” “Are you sure?” “Very safe.” He turned and walked out of the kitchen. Jhoana was paralyzed. For the first time, she wasn’t fighting.
Throughout the day, the tension was unbearable. Lola Pining cleaned quietly, but her ears were alert. Aling Teresita slept peacefully, without the usual tremors. Miguel remained in his office on the second floor, repeatedly looking at his cellphone, doubting whether to act or wait for the exact moment. He knew that an accusation without further evidence could turn against him. He also knew that every minute of waiting could be his mother’s last.
At dusk, he came down, determined. Jhoana was waiting for him in the living room with an elegant dress and a glass of white wine in her hand. “Were you quiet all day?” she asked in a sweet voice, but her eyes were tense. “I was thinking,” he said. “About what?” “About everything I haven’t been seeing.” She frowned. “Don’t worry, Miguel. It’s not drama, Jhoana. It’s real.” There was a silence. The clock chimed eight. Jhoana took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I do.” “About what?” “My mother.” She feigned surprise. “Your mother, what about her? You know.”
Jhoana smiled. Moments later, that smile turned into laughter. “Again, you’re repeating the maid’s nonsense.” Miguel didn’t answer; he took his cellphone out of his pocket and left it on the table. The video started playing by itself. The sound of the liquid falling broke the silence. Two drops, a spoon, Jhoana’s face clear, unmistakable. She turned pale. “That doesn’t prove anything,” she said nervously. “Try all you want,” he replied. “It’s a manipulation. That woman hates me.” “Are you scared?” “No, Jhoana. I’m scared I’ll laugh.” “Me?” “Yes, you.”
The air became thick. Lola Pining listened from the hallway and clutched the fabric in her hands. She knew this was the beginning of the end. Miguel sighed. “I don’t believe you anymore.” “Miguel, please.” “No, this time you’re going to listen to me.” The woman stepped back. He took the empty jar he had found on the counter and placed it in front of her. “What did you give her? Is it medicine? Medicine for what? To sleep, or to kill her?” “Don’t talk!” she screamed, but her voice no longer sounded confident.
At that moment, Aling Teresita slowly descended the stairs. Her body was still weak, but her eyes were firm. “Don’t worry,” she said in a trembling voice. Jhoana turned around. “Aling Teresita, she shouldn’t be up.” “I shouldn’t, but I am.” Miguel ran to help her, but she raised her hand. “I’m tired of being silent.”
Aling Teresita looked directly at her. “You believe that poison only kills the body, but it also kills the soul.” “She’s delirious!” Jhoana shouted. “No, I remember.” The silence was absolute. Only the distant street noise broke the tension.
Aling Teresita slowly approached the table. The trembling of her hands was evident, but her gaze was steady, determined. Miguel helped her sit down. Jhoana watched the scene with her lips closed, as if she still believed she could control the situation. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she forced her voice out. “You’re confused, Teresa.” “I’ve been there long enough,” the old woman replied without looking away. “When you entered this house, the color changed.”
She tried to laugh, but she choked. “Please, enough.” “No,” said Aling Teresita, “enough with the lies. I know what you were doing. I feel it every time you give me the lugaw that tastes like metal, every time my hands don’t obey me and my head spins without reason.” Miguel closed his eyes. Hurt, as if every word was being stabbed into him with a knife. Jhoana looked for his desperate gaze. “Don’t believe her, she’s sick, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.” But he didn’t look at her; he only looked at the jar on the table, the jar she swore she didn’t know. “There’s nothing left to explain,” he said in a low but firm voice.
Jhoana took a deep breath. “If you do this, Miguel, you’ll ruin your life.” “You already ruined mine.”
The silence was long. You could hear dogs barking in the distance, the noise of a car passing, the wind moving the curtains—nothing else. Only the weight of fear.
Suddenly Jhoana stepped forward. Her eyes, which used to feign sweetness, now shone with rage. “Is this how you repay me for everything I did for you, for us?” she repeated in disbelief. “You did it for money.” “Lies, I love you.” “No, you love power.” She gritted her teeth. “You don’t know what it feels like to live without anything. I learned to survive, and if to have a decent life I had to marry you, I did it.” “At the expense of my mother?” “She’s old. Sooner or later she was going to die.” “But not because of you!” Miguel’s scream echoed on the walls.
Aling Teresita trembled but did not move. Jhoana looked at him, surprised by the anger she had never seen in him. “Do you know what the worst part is?” Miguel continued. “That I was deceived, too. I thought love could change you, but love doesn’t cure poison.”
Jhoana smiled. Sarcastically. “Poison is in everyone; some just hide it better.”
Lola Pining’s heart pounded from the hallway. She knew something was about to happen. She felt the urge to do something.
Suddenly, the gate opened, and two police officers appeared. One looked at her with a cold expression. Lola Pining had called her brother, who worked with the police, not fully trusting Miguel. The police approached, and in that instant, Jhoana’s mask completely shattered.
“Ms. Jhoana Arriola, you are under arrest for attempted homicide.”
Jhoana’s face contorted with rage and terror. “No! It’s not true!”
But Miguel helped his mother stand, still holding the cellphone with the video. He looked at his wife, and his gaze was devoid of mercy. “It is true, Jhoana. And this time, no one can hide it.”
Chaos ensued. The police took Jhoana away, and her screams echoed throughout the old house. When they finally left, the house returned to a heavy, yet clean, silence.
Miguel took his mother’s hand and hugged her. “I will never leave you alone again, Mother. Never.”
Aling Teresita looked at her son, and for the first time in a long time, her eyes shone again. She looked at Lola Pining, who had emerged from the hallway, and smiled. “Thank you, Lola Pining. You are my guardian angel.”
In the center of the patio, the jacaranda began to bloom again. The poison was gone, and life had returned to the house. The next day was a day where the lugaw tasted right, the water was clear, and Lola Pining’s apron no longer concealed fear, but a new hope. Miguel, whose eyes were now open, had finally seen the true value of people.