Hurriedly selling all the wedding gold to treat her mother-in-law’s cancer, who would have thought that when she recovered, she would quickly call her three biological daughters to divide the property…
On the wedding day, I—Ana Santos—was given some alahas by my maternal family as a dowry. I thought I would keep it for protection, but who would have thought that after only half a year of being the daughter-in-law of the Reyes family in Barangay San Roque, Antipolo City, Nanay Lita would be diagnosed with cancer. The whole family was in turmoil, but in the end, I was the only one who sold all the wedding gold, pooled in savings, and borrowed money from friends to pay for her chemo and radiation treatment in the hospital for many months.

After nearly a year of medication and radiation, Nanay Lita recovered. I was so happy that I cried, thinking that all the hardships were over, and from now on the house would be peaceful. Yet, after only a little while of walking, she called her three biological daughters—Jessa, Marjorie, Karla—to a family meeting right in the living room. In front of me, she pointed at the Transfer Certificate of Title, the deposit passbook and said clearly:

“You guys share it with your mother. Manugang is just an outsider.”

I was stunned. My husband, Marco Reyes, kept quiet, not daring to defend his wife. Feeling indignant, I did not argue. I silently took the plastic potty/bedpan that was still under the bed—something I had been used to serving for almost a year—and placed it in the middle of the room. I smiled faintly:

“From now on, please share this.”

Having said that, I carried my child back to my parents’ house in Biñan, Laguna for a few days, without looking back.

A week later, the phone rang continuously. My three sisters-in-law called in a hurry, their voices trembling:…

“Come back now! Nanay… Nanay Lita just had a stroke. Pointing at the red book and passbook, she was stuttering, unable to speak, the doctor said she was no longer mentally sound enough to sign!”

I returned to find Nanay lying on her back, her hands trembling as she pointed at the pile of papers. The three sisters-in-law were crying, fighting over each paper, but no one dared to sign any transfer or authorization papers—because of the lack of a valid, notarized signature, and the doctor’s confirmation that she was temporarily incapacitated, the bank would not disburse the money, and the land registry office would not process it.

The assets of several million pesos suddenly turned into a pile of useless paper. The house was in chaos: the daughters argued until their heads were broken, Marco sat there, dazed and helpless.

I stood there, my heart choking with bitterness:
It turned out that all the effort and alahas I had sold to save Nanay, in the end, only returned an ironic ending—Nanay was speechless, the three sisters-in-law were left empty-handed, and I… had long since stopped caring about anything.

Epilogue: “You Can Sell the Wedding Gold, But Not Your Own Worth”

A week after the panicked phone call, the house in Barangay San Roque, Antipolo moved to a different rhythm. The stop-start bickering of my three sisters-in-law—Jessa, Marjorie, Karla—spilled in and out of Nanay Lita’s room. On the table lay the TCT (land title), the passbook, half-filled transfer forms. Useless, all of them, once the doctor had certified Nanay incapable of signing; the bank froze the accounts, and the land registry demanded proper papers no one could produce.

Marco—my husband—sat blankly, eyes pinned to the old tile floor. I stood in the doorway with our child, listening to the soft breath of the machine. On the shelf, the bedpan I’d set in the middle of the room last week had been pushed back under the bed by someone. It was no longer just an object; it was a reminder.

“Let’s go to the barangay hall,” I said evenly. “Have the kapitana witness it and put everything on paper. Who cares, who pays, who’s responsible—write it down.”

No one argued. They were tired. I was tired. But tired doesn’t mean giving up.

That afternoon we sat in the barangay’s small meeting room. The air smelled of floor wax; the ceiling fan ticked. The kapitana read aloud: “For now, Lita Reyes needs 24/7 care. The family agrees to hire a caregiver in shifts. Costs are to be split equally among the four children—Marco, Jessa, Marjorie, Karla. They will also rotate night duty alongside the caregiver. Ana (that’s me) is no longer obliged to provide free care.”

Jessa flushed. “But Ate… you live closest to Nanay…”

I met her gaze. “I sold my alahas—my wedding gold—to pay nearly a year of hospital bills. I’m not this family’s helper. If you want to hire me, then do it by contract—with pay, schedule, and days off—exactly as you would hire anyone else. If not, please take turns with the bedpan under the bed.”

The kapitana tapped her pen. “Enter that into the minutes.”

We signed. This time Marco’s hand didn’t shake. Passing me the pen, he whispered, “I’m sorry… for leaving you alone so long.”

I didn’t say “it’s okay.” I only nodded. Sorry isn’t candy to suck on; it’s a promise not to repeat the mistake.

That night’s shift belonged to Marjorie. At 2 a.m., the call bell rang. The caregiver was busy securing the IV line; I handed the bedpan to Marjorie. She fumbled, then managed. For the first time she looked at me without that cocky tilt to her chin. “This is hard…”

“It is,” I said, “and it repeats, day after day.”

At dawn, Karla arrived with a bag of lugaw and a pack of pandesal. “You should eat a bit,” she murmured. I accepted—not because I was hungry, but because respect was being relearned in this house.

On day three, Jessa quietly cleaned the room and stacked the papers. “Ate,” she said softly, “I… I’m sorry about the other day.” The sentence hung without a perfect period, but it eased something tight in my chest.

After the stroke, the speech therapist said Nanay needed to practice sounds. We taped a big alphabet chart opposite her bed. The first day, her finger drifted across random letters. On day seven she reached for P, then A, then S… I put it together. “Pasensya?”

She nodded. Her eyes filled.

That night she tapped the bedrail, beckoning me. Her trembling hand wrapped my wrist, tracing one more word: S—A—L—A—M—A—T.

Salamat. Thank you.

Suddenly the bedpan felt lighter—not because the work had changed, but because its meaning had: from serving as an “outsider” to being the one who didn’t run.

One afternoon Marco was digging for medical receipts when he found a sealed brown envelope labeled: “Para kay Ana — The day Nanay was discharged last time.” Inside was a scrap of paper, shaky but clear—she must have written it while she was still lucid:

“Ana, if anything happens to me, don’t let anyone call you an outsider. If I recover, I will make a will to write your name under my utang na loob (debt of gratitude). If I don’t make it in time, this letter is my testimony: your wedding gold saved me. Salamat.”

I laid the letter on Nanay’s chest and read it aloud slowly. She listened, tears gathering in the fine lines at her eyes. I didn’t need a will to legalize what everyone could see: I had given, and the one who received was grateful.

Two months later, Family Court appointed Marco as Nanay’s legal guardian, with conditions: all medical expenses must be transparent, recorded in a shared ledger; the three sisters co-sign monthly reconciliations. Nanay’s assets cannot be transferred until she regains capacity to sign or the court orders otherwise.

My name wasn’t in those papers. Strangely, I didn’t feel missing. I had something more important than a line of ink: boundaries.

At the barangay meeting I said, “I will not care for Nanay for free. If the family wants my help on shifts, pay me like a caregiver. If not, don’t call me ‘outsider’ when you need me and forget me right after.”

Jessa exhaled. “Let’s… sign a contract with Ate.” The kapitana smiled. “Good. Family, yes—but work is still work.”

I returned to Biñan, Laguna and opened a small online merienda shop: lugaw, pancit, turon. I named it “Salamat, Ana,” after Nanay’s carefully spelled word. The first order came from Marjorie: five trays of pancit for Nanay’s nine-day prayers (novena). I delivered them myself, took cash, and clipped in a neat receipt.

At month’s end I bought myself a slim gold ring. Not as costly as the alahas I once sold, but heavy enough to remind me: I bought this with my own work. I wore it while changing Nanay’s dressings; under the light it flashed, a small affirmation.

One drizzly afternoon Karla arrived for her shift with a pack of adult diapers and a new notebook. “I made a logbook for meds, meals, and PT,” she said. On the first page she wrote: “Rule #1: No one calls Ana an ‘outsider.’ Rule #2: Anyone late to a shift pays a fine into the medicine fund.”

I laughed out loud for the first time in months.

Marco changed, too. He learned to refuse, gently but firmly, every task “assigned to the wife” without respect attached. Every night he taught our child, then went to Nanay’s room and held her hand like a five-year-old boy again. “Salamat po, Nay,” he whispered, “for writing that letter.”

Nanay looked at the ring on my finger and blinked twice—her way of nodding. She didn’t need to speak; we understood.

The assets still lie untouched—like a stack of papers sleeping beneath glass. Maybe one day the court will allow transfers by law, portions divided as the code requires. Maybe Nanay will have a clear day and sign a will. Maybe nothing will be signed at all. I’ve stopped calculating.

Because the wedding gold—rings, chains, earrings—I sold long ago. But my worth is not something anyone can sell for me, nor can they strip it away. It lives in the barangay minutes, in the logbook on the table, in a fair contract for paid shifts, in a letter spelled with Pasensya and Salamat, and in the slim ring I slid onto my own hand.

That night, before switching off the light, I placed the bedpan neatly in the plastic cabinet—not in the middle of the room like an accusation. It had finished its mission.

I smoothed our child’s hair and watched the rain slant past the small window. In San Roque, people still said, “That house has a lot going on.” I smiled. Yes—but it’s time my story stopped being made of tears. It is dignity. It is boundaries. It is how a woman stands upright in a storm and calls everything by its right name.

As for the epilogue—maybe it fits inside the two words Nanay spelled:
“Thank you.”
And I answer with two words of my own, a little different:
“It’s okay.”
Because from today on, I know how to protect myself.