Every night, around 2-3 am, I receive a call from my daughter – Maya. She had just given birth 10 days ago and was at her husband’s house in Dasmariñas, Cavite to “remain in confinement”. On the phone, her voice was choked with sobs:

– “Mom, I’m so tired… I’m so scared… come and pick me up, I can’t take it anymore…”

Every time I heard it, my heart felt like it was being cut into pieces. Looking at my husband – Tatay Hung – he just sighed:

– “Please try to be patient. Your daughter is married, don’t make things difficult for your in-laws. You have to abstain from confinement, it’s normal for her to cry.”

I couldn’t rest easy. Night after night, the phone rang, my daughter cried like her heart was breaking. I also hugged my chest and cried, but I didn’t dare to go pick her up for fear of being criticized by my in-laws.

Until that morning, I couldn’t bear it anymore. I woke my husband up and said firmly:

– “I have to go there today. If my in-laws don’t let me, I will definitely carry my child back.”

The couple hurriedly drove more than 30 kilometers from Mandaluyong to the in-laws’ house in Cavite. But as soon as I reached the gate, I saw a scene that made me dizzy, my face darkened, and I fainted in the yard.

Right in the middle of the yard, two coffins were placed side by side; on the altar, incense smoke billowed, the sound of the Rosary and mournful cries echoed.

My husband trembled as he helped me up, looked at me, and screamed:

– “Oh my God… my child!”

It turned out that Maya had died during the night due to postpartum hemorrhage, but her husband’s family had not called her parents-in-law. What was even more painful was that next to my daughter’s coffin was a small coffin covered with a white cloth — it was my newborn grandchild, who had not yet been given a Christian name.

I screamed, rushed to hug my child’s coffin, choked:

– “How many times did I call you, Mom… Why didn’t you come in time to save me… Why are they so cruel to hide it like this!”

The villagers around whispered:

– “Last night, the mother cried and wanted to go to the hospital, but her husband’s family insisted on keeping her, saying bawal lumabas (not to go out) until 40 days had passed. They even called hilot to steam with leaves, drink salabat, and say not to ‘touch the wind or binat’. When it was critical, it was too late…”

My whole body was weak. My husband stood there, frozen, and my in-laws — Nanay Cora and Tatay Lando — bowed their heads and avoided me.

Looking at the two coffins lying side by side in the yard, I felt the world spinning. Just because of blind superstition, just because of cruelty and stubbornness, my daughter and granddaughter had to die tragically.

I knelt down, crying and whispering beside the coffin lid

– “Maya, I’m sorry… Every night you call, I hear you. I will bring the truth to light for you. I promise.”

In the afternoon, amid the sound of the wind blowing through the sampayan hung with white diapers, I stood before the altar, lighting another stick of incense. I looked straight at Nanay Cora:

– “If you had called an ambulance last night or taken my child to the ER, things would have been different. I will work with the barangay, the DSWD, and the hospital to clarify. No one has the right to take a life in the name of ‘taboo’.”

No one answered. Only the distant sound of church bells. I held my husband’s hand, unable to stand. But I knew: from this moment on, I would demand justice for my child — in Cavite, in Manila, anywhere — so that no more Maya would die in the darkness of inhumanity disguised as tradition.