A month after giving birth to my first daughter, I thought my life was complete. During the confinement, my husband Paolo took great care of his wife and children. He would come home early from work, cook, clean, and wake up at night to make milk for the baby. Seeing him holding and comforting the baby in our small house in Quezon City, I cried many times with happiness.
But by the fourth week, I felt something was wrong. Every 2-3 am, Paolo would open the refrigerator, take out a few frozen bags of milk (I carefully called out the date) and go out. At first, I thought he was making milk, but when he held the baby, the milk bottle was different. The amount of breast milk in the refrigerator continued to decrease, even though I was still expressing regularly.
I asked calmly:
— Where is the milk you saved yesterday?
Paolo smiled awkwardly:
— I… I accidentally spilled it.
The answer was unbelievable. I decided to pretend to be asleep and wait and see. That night, he opened the closet, gathered the milk bags with dates written on them, put them in a bag, and quietly went out the door as if afraid of waking little Mika.
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I put on a thin coat, asked my mother who was with me to take care of the baby, and then secretly followed. The small alley of the barangay was quiet, the yellow lights flashing. Paolo went straight to Naraha’s house a few hundred meters away, instead of turning onto the main street like I thought. I held my breath and hid behind a tree. The door opened slightly; Mama Luz came out, her face sad, her hair messy. Paolo handed over the milk bag, the two of them whispered and then went inside.
I was stunned. Why did she secretly return the milk to Mom?
Through the half-closed door, I saw a scene that made my heart ache: inside the room, Ate Rosa – the wife of Kuya Ramon (Paolo’s brother) – was locked in a hug holding a red newborn baby. The child cried with hunger. Ate Rosa was pale, her eyes were dark. Mama Luz quickly took the milk bag, warmed it, and gave it to Ate. The baby sucked the bottle eagerly, gradually stopping crying.
I was surprised to understand: Ate Rosa was born prematurely, her body was weak and she had no milk; Kuya Boy’s family was poor and did not have enough money to buy formula. In order not to starve her grandson, Mama Luz asked Paolo to secretly bring my milk every night.
Tears fell. The dark suspicion – fear that he would betray her, fear of having an “illegitimate child” – suddenly disappeared. The truth is the helplessness of the entire family in the face of hardship.
I returned quietly. I felt sorry for my wife and my grandson, but I also felt sorry for myself because no one told me. I had not intentionally become the “adoptive mother” of a child without even knowing it.
The next morning, I said to Paolo:
— You followed me last night. You saw everything.
He stopped, bowed his head, his voice trembling:
— I’m sorry… I’m afraid you’re sad. You just gave birth, and it’s hard, so I don’t want you to worry about Kuya anymore. I saw the baby crying and hungry… I couldn’t help myself.
I held his hand:
— I don’t blame you for helping the family. But I made a mistake in keeping it from you. You can share – as long as you don’t have to live with doubt.
That night, I brought more milk myself. As I looked at the baby nursing well in his mother’s arms, my heart ached. Ate Rosa held my hand tightly, tears streaming down her face:
— Thank you… If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know what to do.
From that day on, I took the initiative to express milk, and divided it into two parts: one for Mika, one for the baby at Mama Luz’s house. Paolo no longer went out at night. He looked at me, his eyes full of tears – perhaps he had never seen his wife so strong and tolerant.
In the small house in Quezon City, in the midst of poverty, love was what brought us back to peace. And I understood: sometimes a surprising truth teaches us how to love more fully – not only for our children, but also for the lives next to us.