Accidentally hearing what my father-in-law said, I decided to get a divorce immediately
Since the day I got married, I—Paolo—had always thought I was lucky to have a gentle and sensible wife, Lea. But what I didn’t expect was that the simmering conflict with my father-in-law—Tatay Cesar from Caloocan—had grown so much that there were times when I wanted to give up on this marriage.

Tatay Cesar was a patriarchal man, accustomed to imposing. He wanted to intervene in everything related to his daughter’s family: from fixing the porch, buying a refrigerator, to how to raise the child. Whatever I did, he would find fault; whenever I gave him advice, he would dismiss it, telling me straight to my face that I “didn’t know what to say,” “wasn’t good enough,” “had no experience,” and then added: “My daughter has always lived a happy life, I can’t let her suffer.” Hearing that, I was both angry and offended.

Once, my wife and I were discussing borrowing money to buy a small plot of land in the suburbs of Cavite to build a house later. Before I could even finish explaining how to repay the debt, Tatay Cesar shouted:
“Are you trying to make my daughter suffer? Where will you get the money to pay, you have a meager salary and you’re still trying to make excuses!”

Lea sat next to me, embarrassed, not daring to defend me, just bowing her head in silence. That silence made me feel disappointed. I understood her dilemma, but I also couldn’t stand being treated like a freeloader.

Gradually, every time I went home to Caloocan, I felt suffocated. Tatay Cesar still treated his daughter like a princess, while I was looked down upon. I brought money back to take care of my wife and children, but he never admitted it. Once, during a family gathering in Bulacan, I overheard him tell his relatives that his daughter had married the wrong man, that his son-in-law was incompetent and always thought he was right. That sentence made me decide to divorce immediately, “give your daughter back” so she can “marry the right person” as you wish.

When I mentioned the breakup, Lea was… shocked and cried. She said she did not do anything wrong to me; could it be that I wanted to leave my wife just because of my father’s words? “Anyway, she is my Tatay; what’s wrong with you being patient?”

I was frustrated. My wife did not stand up to protect me, but instead expected me to be patient with her father. I wondered: if this was my biological mother, and Lea was scolded by her mother-in-law like that, would she let me go?

I—Paolo—had already written an email to the lawyer to ask about the annulment procedure. My finger hovered over the send button and paused. I didn’t want to leave Lea. I just couldn’t continue living in a state where Tatay Cesar treated me like a freeloader.

That night, while Miko was sleeping, I placed a piece of paper in front of Lea: “Three conditions for me to continue.”

Our little family was a team. All decisions about money, housing, children—we were the two of us. Tatay was consulted, not decided for us.

Moved out (temporarily rented an apartment in Imus, Cavite, almost an hour from Caloocan), no unexpected visits.

No financial support from my in-laws in exchange for “control.” Instead, regular weekly visits, but if there was another insult, the visit ended immediately.

Lea looked at me for a long time. She nodded, then squeezed my hand:
—Give me time to talk to Tatay. But if you don’t agree… I’ll still go with you.

Three days later, Barangay Hall in Caloocan held a family reconciliation meeting. Kap Chito sat in the middle, Tatay Cesar on the right, and us on the left. Nanay Lita (mother-in-law) sat behind him, silent.

Kap said briefly:
— Every family has its own culture, but insulting is not culture. Today we will agree on the boundary.

Tatay banged on the table:
— What boundary? My daughter married the wrong man, I have to correct her! She wants to take my daughter to live in a boarding house in Cavite, is that right?

I held back my voice:
— Tatay, I respect you. But calling me “incompetent” in front of my relatives—that’s insulting. I brought Nanay’s hospital bill when she was admitted, Lea’s school fees, and the house payment statement for a long time. I’m not claiming credit. I just want to say: I am enough to take care of my family, and no one can humiliate me in front of my wife and children.

Lea put the old apartment key on the table:

— Tatay, this is the old house key. I don’t want you to come by unexpectedly anymore. I’ll call first, and I hope Tatay calls first.

Her voice was trembling but determined:

— If Tatay says Paolo is “incompetent” again, I’ll take Miko and go home right away. I’m Tatay’s daughter, but I’m also Paolo’s wife.

The meeting room fell silent. Kap wrote down three boundaries in the minutes, asking both sides to sign. Nanay Lita suddenly spoke up:

— Cesar, that’s enough. When we first got married, my grandparents also looked at me like that, do you remember? Don’t repeat it to me.

Tatay pursed his lips, didn’t sign right away, just threw out the sentence:

— I don’t promise.

Then he walked out.

Kap sighed, still stamped “Recognizing the proposal of the husband and wife’s boundaries” and reminded us:

— If you are harassed or insulted continuously, come back here. I will invite him again.

We moved to Imus on a rainy day. The rented apartment was small, overlooking an alley with sampaguita shops. The first evening, Lea placed a wooden table by the window, placing the wedding photo on it. She said:
— I choose you. But give me time to help Tatay lower his ego.

I nodded.

A week later, Tatay drove a jeepney down to the gate. He called:
— Come out!

I didn’t open the gate. I texted: “Tatay, please come up at 3pm on Sunday. I’m busy today.”
He texted back a string of reproaches. I kept quiet. No arguing—that was what Kap had told me.

Sunday came, Tatay was wearing an old barong, Nanay Lita was carrying a pansit. I opened the door, saying the prepared words:
— Thank you, Tatay, Nanay. Today we’ll just eat and visit Miko. No talking about borrowing money, no criticizing anyone. If you say anything harsh, I’ll end the meal.

Tatay raised his eyebrows, about to argue back. But Nanay put her hand on his arm. The meal went by awkwardly, not smoothly, but not explosively.

One month. Two months. Things got a little better, but still like walking on a tightrope. Until the day Miko had a high fever. I carried her to Asian Hospital at midnight. Lea texted the family group, Nanay called right away, Tatay called later:
— Take her to the best hospital! I’ll take care of the money!

I replied:
— Thank you, Tatay. The subsidiary’s insurance will pay.

Early in the morning, Tatay appeared in the hallway, intending to sign the advance payment counter. I walked over, gently pushing the paper back:
— Tatay, I appreciate your kindness. But if I accept the money, tomorrow when I decide where Miko will study and what to eat, I’ll have to listen to “whose money is it”. I don’t want that.

He looked at me for a long time. Miko was crying in the room, Lea was coaxing her. Tatay’s voice was rarely gentle:
— Do you still think I want to control you guys?
— I don’t think so. I’ve experienced it.

He didn’t say anything more. He waited until noon, bought some porridge, gave it to Lea, and then left.

Early the following month, Kap Chito texted. I thought something was up. It turned out that Kap had called the entire maternal family to attend “Parenting a Married Child”—a short class given by the district counselor. Lea and I sat next to each other, and Tatay—for the first time—sat in the front row, arms crossed.

The counselor asked:
— In the Philippines, many parents understand “utang na loob” (gratitude) as the right to control. But true “gratitude” is to create independence for their children. Who here has ever unintentionally used “gratitude” to control their children?
The room laughed awkwardly. A few hands went up. Nanay Lita touched Tatay’s elbow. He… raised his hand, slowly

Now sharing, he said hoarsely:
— I was afraid that my daughter would suffer like her mother in the past. So I hugged her all. I thought that was love.

The counselor nodded:
— Love is to help someone stand firmly, not to carry them for life.

On the way home, Tatay walked next to me:
— Are you free? Stop by a coffee shop… men talk to each other.

We sat at a roadside shop. He looked out at the traffic, and said very softly:
— I apologize for calling you incompetent. I got used to that mouth since I was a team leader, scolding workers all the time. At home, I should be different.

I was silent, thanking him with a nod. He continued:
— From now on, I won’t jump in anymore. But sometimes… let me give you some advice, okay?

— Okay. But give me some advice privately, respectfully, not before relatives.

He smiled—a rare smile without harshness:
— Deal.

By the end of the year, we had enough money to put down a deposit on a small lot in General Trias. Lea and I gave Nanay the blueprints first; to Tatay, I said:
— I invite Tatay to be the guest of honor on the groundbreaking day. But I won’t ask for permission. This is our decision.

He nodded. No scolding. During the congratulatory boodle fight, Tatay carried a pot of sinigang, teasing Miko for eating sour food well. He turned to me:
— I see you… are not as incompetent as I said.

— I know. And I also know Tatay loves me. It’s just that we’re learning how to love again.

He snorted and turned away. I looked at Lea. She held my hand and whispered:
— Thank you for not letting me go. And thank you for still setting boundaries.

I smiled. Marriage doesn’t turn into a fairy tale after just a few reconciliation sessions. Boundaries still need to be maintained every day. But at least, from Caloocan to Cavite, there is a path to follow—not through forbearance, but through respect and responsibility on the part of each person.

And if Tatay should ever stray, I know what I must do: reiterate the boundaries—calmly, firmly, without rancor—because that is the only way to keep my wife, keep my home, and also the kindest way to keep my father-in-law in the family without anyone being trampled.