My mother-in-law called my stepfather to tell on her daughter-in-law, and his reply left her stunned. As for me, ….
When my husband and I were preparing to get married, Nanay Carmen asked us to have a premarital health check-up. I thought it was civilized so I did it right away. The results: Rafael was normal, and I was diagnosed with PCOS. My mother-in-law was clearly frowning, but Rafael was determined to get married, so she kept quiet.

Six months after the wedding, I still followed the doctor’s instructions. When Rafael went on a business trip to BGC, Nanay Carmen suddenly snapped and forced me to do IVF right away:

“How long are we going to wait? If we still don’t have a child in 5-7 years, who will continue the family line? Let’s do it now to be sure! If it doesn’t work, then… get a divorce so my son can marry someone else.”

I explained: my husband and I were still young, and we had discussed getting treatment for a while before considering IVF. She brushed it off and immediately called—not my mother, but Tatay Ben, as if she was sure he wouldn’t take my side.

She put it on speakerphone:
— “Please help me teach my daughter. Otherwise, when the day comes that I return her, you’ll lose face. You don’t want to be implicated, right?”

I was stunned. Unexpectedly, the answer made Nanay Carmen pale, and my eyes burned:
“It’s okay, ma’am. If you can’t tolerate it, let me take her home. My husband and I don’t care about divorce or not, as long as she’s happy. Is my son-in-law on a business trip? Then let me come pick up Lia and stay for a few days to relax, so you have time to think carefully.”

He politely said goodbye and hung up. Thirty minutes later, my mother and Tatay Ben stood in front of the apartment door in New Manila. Nanay Carmen blushed but couldn’t say anything. I folded my clothes and cried. For years I have been estranged from him, yet he still considers me his son, and stands by me when things go wrong.

It is true that hardship reveals the heart.

Regarding the question: “How long does it take to treat infertility before IVF?”

In summary, at the age of 26 and with PCOS, most people recommend not jumping straight into IVF without trying the basic steps and **not

That evening I followed Nanay Lorna and Tatay Ramon back to their old house in New Manila. Tatay lit the stove and cooked a pot of ginger-scented arroz caldo; Nanay did not ask any questions, but stroked my hair and said, “Go to sleep, and we’ll figure it out tomorrow.” I lay listening to the rain pattering on the tin roof and suddenly felt as light as if I had just swum out of a big wave.

The next morning, Miguel flew back from Cebu. He didn’t even have time to take off his backpack before he went straight to Nanay’s house. Just then, Doña Teresa walked in, her face still angry. I sat on a wicker chair, twisting the hem of my shirt. Miguel greeted Tatay, then looked straight at his mother: “Mother, the treatment is between me, Thea, and the doctor. My wife’s body is my wife’s. No one can decide for me, not even you.” Doña Teresa was startled by his calm but firm voice. She smiled faintly: “This family needs you. What if we wait for her for five or seven years and she still doesn’t come? Do IVF right away to be sure, if not, then divorce.” Tatay put the bowl of porridge down on the table, his voice low but resolute: “If you can hug your daughter-in-law, hug her with love, not with fear. She’s tired.” The room suddenly became quiet. Nanay gently held my hand: “There’s a doctor’s appointment in Tomas Morato in thirty minutes, let’s all go together.”

The clinic was small, the smell of antiseptic alcohol lingered. The doctor read my records, asked me about my cycle, about my irregular periods, then looked at Miguel. Her voice was as light as rain: “You two are still young. PCOS is not the end. People don’t jump straight into IVF unless there’s a clear reason. We’ll start by changing our lifestyle, monitoring ovulation, using mild stimulants. Try a few cycles with monitoring. If it doesn’t work, we’ll figure out the next step. No one can run your heart for you, but no one can push it too hard.” Miguel held my hand under the table; only then did I notice that my hand had stopped shaking.

In the afternoon, when I returned home, Miguel created a family chat group and briefly sent a message: “From now on, everything related to treatment will be through us. Don’t call anyone else to pressure you. Follow the protocol for the next six months, IVF is not yet discussed.” Doña Teresa saw the message but did not reply. I was a little nervous. Late at night, she sent four words: “I’m sorry, son.” The next morning, she brought over a pot of steaming tinola and a bag of Davao grapefruit, stood outside the door hesitantly, then said softly: “I’m afraid I’m old and won’t have time to carry the apo anymore. I said wrong.” I walked over to hug her, feeling a stone in my chest lighten.

In the following days, life took on a different rhythm. Every afternoon, I walked around the village, looking at the bougainvillea bushes glowing in the late sunlight. Nanay made ginger tea, Tatay fixed the creaking table fan, saying “let the wind cool your head.” Miguel asked to work from home two days a week, personally driving me to ultrasound scans. In the evenings, we sat on the balcony listening to the sound of cars on the narrow street, talking about the future without mentioning the word “failure”. When my heart started to beat fast with anxiety, Miguel would gently squeeze my fingertips as if to signal: “I’m here.”

One evening Doña Teresa came by. She hesitated for a long time before saying: “I was under pressure in the past, so I said something wrong. Don’t keep it to yourself.” I looked over at Tatay; he stood behind her and nodded slightly like someone putting a brick back together. I invited her into the kitchen and ladled another bowl of warm porridge. When we finished eating, she hesitantly asked: “Tomorrow, can I take you for a walk around the market?” I smiled and agreed. It was the first time I saw my mother-in-law slow down to match my pace, instead of dragging me along with her fear.

The second month, the medicine took effect, the doctor said “it’s okay, just keep going”. I didn’t dare to expect too much, just learned to take care of myself like taking care of a plant.

Every morning I write down in my notebook: how many hours I slept, how many thousand steps I took, how I felt. I practice deep breathing before bed, read a few pages of a book, put my phone down an hour earlier. Small changes add up to a full day. Sometimes fear still arises, especially on rainy nights in Manila, I remember what I said at the clinic: “No one runs your heart for you.”

One afternoon, Miguel brought home a small photo frame. In the frame was a photo of me standing on Nanay’s porch, my hair tied up high, my smile pursed as if I was afraid that laughing out loud would destroy the peace I had just found. Below, he wrote in marker: “We choose truth and kindness.” I hung the photo frame next to my dressing table, so that every morning when I looked in the mirror I could reread my promise.

Then came the day when Doña Teresa bravely did what she would not have done before: she sat in Nanay’s kitchen, washed the dishes herself, and while washing, she told me about how when she was young, she was also pressured, and cried alone because she thought she was “not enough”. I listened, and suddenly I felt her smaller, closer to me, less of the huge “Doña” shadow that had been covering my bed for the past few months. When she left, she gave me an awkward hug, but her hands were tight.

That night, when Miguel turned off the lights, he lay on his side and looked at me: “If things don’t go as you wish, have you prepared an answer for yourself?” I was silent for a moment and then said: “I will not trade myself to buy an outcome. I want children, but I want us to still have each other, to be kind, with or without children.” Miguel smiled with his eyes, gently touching my forehead: “Me too. I choose you first, then the things I dream of.”

One Sunday morning, Nanay, Tatay, and my mother-in-law went to the small market at the end of the alley. She bought a bunch of baby flowers, saying “to make the bedroom less empty.” Tatay stopped by the repair shop and asked for a new coil of wire. Nanay picked some fragrant mangoes. On the way home, a sudden rainstorm whipped through the trees, and everyone rushed into the porch of a grocery store. I looked around and saw my relatives standing close together because of the sudden rain. I suddenly understood: sometimes families don’t need to speak in unison, they just need to take shelter under the same porch when the wind blows.

Late at night, I walked down the hallway and touched the newly painted wall. The living room was quiet. On the table was the paper Miguel had written the day before: four lines of slanted letters—“The body is Thea’s. The decisions are Thea and Miguel’s. Family is an embrace, not a whip. Hope is to lift others up, not to crush them.” I folded the paper and put it in a drawer, like a talisman.

As I lay down, I heard Manila receding outside the window, leaving only the steady breathing of the man lying next to me. I thought about the road ahead: there would be waiting, unsatisfactory results, follow-up appointments. But there would also be hot meals, afternoon walks hand in hand, unabashed conversations. And if I happened to be scared, I would pick up the phone and call Nanay, Tatay, or just turn around and touch Miguel’s hand. We would tell the truth, slow down a beat, hold each other longer. Outside, the rain had just stopped, the cool night air wafted through the window. In my heart, a very small peace was growing like a sprout.