But the day before, when I was eating, I saw that the meat was a bit fatty, so I just blurted out:

“Anak, next time buy leaner meat, it’s hard to swallow like this.”

I thought it was just a gentle reminder, but unexpectedly, my daughter-in-law turned away and said nothing. The next morning, she went to the palengke market and bought a bunch of rotten fish to cook sinigang soup. I looked at the steaming, fishy soup and couldn’t hold my chopsticks, my throat was choked with anger.

I was so angry, I thought: “You’re raising a wasp in your sleeve. Not only is she ungrateful, she’s also sulking like a child.” So I decided not to give her any more money, to see how she would handle it.

But exactly 3 days later, my son suddenly called me down to the living room. He sat with a serious face, next to his daughter-in-law, her hands on her hips, her eyes shining with triumph. My son looked at me, his voice commanding:

– “From now on, you don’t need to give your wife money anymore. But you also don’t need to cook, give advice or interfere in the household chores. You just need to eat, and leave the rest to us. Oh… and one more thing: don’t expect to keep your retirement money, what will you do with it later? I think it’s best if you give it to your wife to keep, otherwise… you won’t be able to spend it wisely.”

I was stunned, my ears were ringing, I couldn’t believe that my son, who had raised me for decades in Manila, would say such words. My daughter-in-law sat there, smiling half-heartedly, as if she had just won a big game.

My chest ached, tears welled up. In just a moment, I understood that I had become a burden in my own home, and that little money… was just an excuse for them to reveal their true colors.

That night, I curled up on the old wooden bed on the upper floor of our house in Quezon City. Outside, the sound of jeepneys and tricycles was loud, but inside me there was only a cold void. Since when had the son I loved so much become such a stranger? All because of a few pennies of pension and a family meal.

I couldn’t sleep. Tears wet my pillow. But inside, a fire began to burn: “I can’t let my daughter-in-law and son look down on me like this. I don’t have much strength left, but I still have the right to decide on the little bit of property my ancestors left me.”

The next morning, I quietly went to the barangay office and met an old lawyer in Manila. I told the story, every bitter detail, and made my wishes clear:

– “I want to make a will. This house, this small piece of land in Bulacan… I leave it all to my grandson. He is still young, but I believe he will appreciate it in the future.”

The lawyer looked at me intently, then nodded. He handed me a stack of papers, explaining in detail. I signed with trembling hands, feeling both pain and relief. I knew I had a shield, a silent weapon.

In the following days, I remained silent, still going to eat with the whole family. My daughter-in-law placed makeshift dishes in front of me, fishy fish, wilted vegetables. She even looked at me with challenging eyes, thinking that I was helpless. My son was busy with work, sometimes even reminding me:

– “Remember to save your retirement money, give it to your wife at the end of the month to keep.”

I just smiled, nodded slightly, and said nothing more. In my heart, I whispered: “You guys think I’m naive, but in fact, I’ve arranged everything properly. When the time is right, you guys will know how wrong you were.”

One evening, my grandson – little Andrei – ran up and hugged my leg:

– “Lola, when I grow up, I will work hard to make a lot of money to buy delicious food for grandma. I don’t want grandma to be sad.”

Hearing that, my heart ached. I hugged my granddaughter tightly, tears falling but still smiling. At that moment, I was even more convinced that my decision to leave everything to my granddaughter was the right one.

I didn’t need to fight with loud words or chopsticks on the dinner table. My weapon was that will – something that would make my daughter-in-law and son bow their heads when the truth was revealed.

And I swore, that day would definitely come.