I GIVE BIRTH to my third child, still a girl. My mother-in-law doesn’t even look at her grandchild, and hates her daughter-in-law. I thought my husband would understand and love his wife and children. Who would have thought that one day I would be shocked when I entered the room where my husband and his mistress lived. What’s more horrifying is that they ….
I GIVE BIRTH to my third child, still a girl…
My mother-in-law turned away, not even looking at her grandchild, and hated her daughter-in-law. I thought my husband would understand and love his wife and children—who would have thought that one day I would be shocked when I entered the room where my husband and his mistress lived…

Marisa feels lucky: how many people have a husband who is handsome, rich, and loves his wife and children like Miguel Santos. But Marisa is still sad: she already has two girls, while her husband’s family—a big business family in Binondo—is very concerned about “having a son to continue the family line” to take over the family business.

Every week, Doña Beatriz called Marisa in, picking her teeth and nagging:

– Whatever you do, this angkan cannot be without a son. If you don’t give birth, I will marry another wife for my son. Women who can’t give birth will only ruin their careers!

Marisa didn’t want to, but she had to get pregnant for the third time. After 4 months, the doctor at St. Luke’s Global City announced: it was a girl. Marisa sobbed. Miguel hugged his wife and whispered: “It’s okay, every anak is a child. I love all three of you.”

On the day Marisa gave birth, Doña Beatriz didn’t care at all. Miguel was afraid that his wife would be tired, so he hired two yayas: one to look after the baby, one to clean—as if to make up for his mother. Marisa was criticized by her mother-in-law, but she consoled herself: her husband still cared for her at night.

Until one day, a close friend called: he saw Miguel walking with a woman into a condo in Ortigas—holding hands, looking very happy. Marisa smiled, you must have seen wrong—her husband was never like that. You were also shaken, clicking your tongue and letting it go. A week later, you reported: the same woman, Miguel opened the car door, his gestures were very intimate. “This time I did not see wrong.”

Marisa was restless. The next morning, she dropped off her child, rented a car to follow Miguel from Makati CBD. He went to the company, she sat at the coffee shop across the street. At noon, Miguel drove around and drove to Ortigas. Stopped in front of a luxury condo, a woman was waiting in the lobby. The two hugged each other and held hands into the elevator. Each of her husband’s movements was like a knife stabbing Marisa’s heart. After nearly two hours, Miguel came out; before getting in the car, he kissed the woman goodbye.

Waiting for her husband to leave, Marisa followed the woman to the 10th floor, the first room in the hallway. Ringed the bell. The door opened. She smirked:
– Oh, Miguel Santos’s wife. You came earlier than I thought.

Marisa’s voice trembled:
– You… know that I’m Miguel’s wife?

She sneered, opening the door. The apartment was as luxurious as Marisa’s. On the wall hung pictures of a happy couple—one was Miguel, the other was her.

– You’re so naive. I’ve known you for a long time. And what’s the matter—apart from the marriage certificate, I lack nothing compared to the “director’s wife”. This is our happy home.

She pointed straight at Marisa’s face:
– You’re just a front for society to see. A well-fed dog stays still when its owner comes home.

– Shut up! – Marisa yelled.

The sarcastic tone continued:
– I’m nothing to your husband… except that we have a son together. Miguel has set up a trust account that’s enough for me to raise him for the rest of my life. Oh, my son’s Lola—Doña Beatriz—still comes here to visit him often. A woman like her who can’t give birth to a son will sooner or later be kicked out of the house.

At that moment… a boy about five years old ran out of the bedroom. Marisa was stunned—his face was exactly like Miguel’s. The same age as her eldest daughter. So for a long time, her husband had been living a double life: during the day, he was a model husband and father; and outside, he was “another family”.

Marisa clutched her chest and staggered out of the apartment. Tears welled up. What should she do now?

“Don’t Call Happiness a Front”

That night, Manila rained relentlessly. Marisa stood under the awning of the parking lot of the building in Ortigas for a long time before she had enough strength to call a Grab back to Makati. The door was open, the apartment was unusually quiet. The two girls were asleep, and Yaya carefully closed the nursery door. Marisa turned off all the lights, sat alone in the dark, listening to the air conditioner hum like someone swallowing tears.

The next morning, she didn’t cry. She texted her best friend: “Don’t call anymore. I need to calm down.” Then she made an appointment with Atty. Reyes—a female lawyer that a woman at BGC had introduced: someone who specializes in legal separation, custody, and support. In the consultation room, Marisa told me everything, her eyes dry.

“I don’t ask for anything for myself,” Marisa said. “I just need to protect the children. And… if possible, I want my mother-in-law to know: a boy has no right to trample on a woman’s heart.”

Atty. Reyes didn’t make empty promises. She spoke slowly, taking notes: “We’ll collect evidence—photos, condo logs, text messages, trust statements. There’s no divorce in the Philippines, but you have the right to legal separation and division of assets, custody of the children. Criminally, concubinage… but let’s leave that for now. The immediate task: the emotional safety of you and the children.”

Marisa nodded. She left the law office and headed straight to the administration office of the condominium in Ortigas. Her best friend—a new resident—was waiting. The receptionist saw the names Miguel Santos and Doña Beatriz in the guest book and was momentarily confused; with a simple dispatch from the law office, the visitor log was printed out with the date—time—card number.

That night, Miguel returned as if nothing had happened. He placed a box of ensaymada from the famous shop in Greenbelt on the table, kissed his youngest daughter on the forehead, pulled up a chair across from his wife: “Are you tired? I told yaya to change the schedule to watch the baby…”

“Are you in Ortigas?” Marisa interrupted, calmly placing a stack of logs in front of him. “Do you have a son there?”

Miguel stood still. For a moment, all the layers of “proper husband” fell away. He tried to change the subject, tried to smile, tried to hold his wife’s hand—but his hand was as cold as metal.

“Sorry.” He said softly. “I was afraid of losing you. Mom… she was pressuring me to ‘continue the family line’. I thought… if I had a son, she would stop being difficult. I was wrong. I—”

“Don’t blame your mother.” Marisa’s voice was thin as a string, but firm. “You signed her a lease. You set up a trust. You kissed her in the lobby. Those choices were yours.”

Miguel was silent, then said as if pleading: “I will stop. Give me time… I will arrange it.”

Marisa looked straight at him: “I will give you three weeks. In three weeks, not a single penny will be transferred to that trust. All visitation schedules will be arranged by the lawyer, no secret. Your mother—if she wants to see her grandchildren—will have to come to this house and respect my daughters. And after three weeks… I will file for legal separation.”

Miguel nodded like someone who had been awakened in the dark. But the following days showed that the promises of a man in a quagmire were not enough to hold back the flood that had already flowed.

A week passed, and Marisa received an invitation to the Santos Group charity gala at a hotel in Pasay. This year’s theme: “Future Heirs, Future Hopes.” The person who signed the invitation: Doña Beatriz. Marisa looked at the invitation, smiled faintly: Succession? Do you have to have a Y chromosome to be called “hope”?

She went anyway. She chose a traditional piña dress as soft as smoke, and wore a white sampaguita brooch. She held her two daughters’ hands and entered the yellow-lit hall. Doña Beatriz approached, glanced at her grandchild—then turned away as if she hadn’t seen him. She pulled Marisa aside: “I heard you’re making a fuss. Don’t touch the honor of this family. My son… does everything for the sake of the family line. Don’t be selfish.”

Marisa smiled, very softly: “Don’t tie yourself to a word and call it honor.” Then she led her two children away, leaving Doña standing amid the perfume and the lights, shaking with anger.

At the gala, when Miguel Santos’s name was announced, he came out, speaking in clear, rounded PR words about “social responsibility,” about “children’s future.” Marisa took a picture: a man holding a microphone, warm and perfect—his mask was so well worn. Marisa sent it to Atty. Reyes added the same line: “See? This is the public script. I’ll write another script for the backstage.”

She opened an unexpected door. A tita from her husband’s side—Tita Ofelia, Miguel’s father’s cousin—had met Marisa at an old tsokolate shop in Intramuros. “I don’t side with anyone,” Tita said. “I’m just tired of seeing women kill each other over the word ‘son.’ Here, look at this.”

Tita pushed aside a faded envelope. Inside was the Santos Family Constitution, established by Miguel’s grandfather—an internal document on succession and division of shares. In Article 7, the yellowed English text read: “Succession shall be based on merit, not gender.” In the margin, there was a handwriting by her great-grandfather: “Whether apo lalaki or apo babae, whoever has the heart and talent will lead.”

“This means…” Marisa whispered.

“That means your Doña added the ‘right of son’ rule later, when she died. She was strong, smart, but she did one thing wrong: she twisted her will.”

Marisa sat for a long time, the wind blowing through the old tiles of Intramuros. She slowly gathered the pieces: the log in Ortigas, the photo in the lobby, Miguel’s trust, Doña’s signature in the guest book, and now—the original Family Constitution. She didn’t want to fight over money. She wanted to correct the names of the children in the “future story” of this house.

She arranged for Miguel and Doña Beatriz to meet for an evening in Binondo, in the glass conference room overlooking the Pasig River. Atty. Reyes sat beside her, silent as a statue. On the other side, Miguel leaned back, trying to keep his composure; Doña crossed her legs, shaking her jade bracelet that made a clicking sound.

Marisa turned on the projector. Images appeared: photos of the embrace in the lobby of Ortigas; logs of the entrances and exits; a trust statement with the bank stamp; a photo of two girls holding hands outside the school gate; and a page from the Family Constitution with the words “not gender” printed in bold print.

“These are the things I have,” Marisa said slowly. “I’m not suing to defame anyone. I’m just setting out four conditions:

One. Our family will publish the original Family Constitution. Remove all the invisible rules about sons and daughters. The family council will sign it and hang it in the office.

Two. The three children: my two daughters and the other boy—will be treated equally in terms of education and health. Each child will have their own separate education fund, at the same level, with the same conditions. They will not be used as weapons or charms in any “succession” talks.

Three. Miguel will end his affair through a legal process: all support for the child will be transferred to a trust account supervised by a third party; visitation schedules will be clearly communicated; there will be no ‘second family’.

Four. If not, I will file for legal separation and obtain a protective order (VAWC) for me and the children. I’m not threatening. I’m ready.”

The room was silent. The sound of the boat honking on the river was very far away. Miguel swallowed. “I… agree with two, three. But one—mother will not—”

Marisa turned to Doña, her eyes clear. “Grandma, Miguel’s grandfather wrote it. Not me.”

Doña Beatriz looked at the page, her face breaking for the first time. For a moment, her love for her son—and her obsession with **“carrying on the family line”—**fought in her eyes. She did not cry; she straightened her back like an old general.

“Okay.” She said softly, as if spitting out a stone. “Children are children. They are not a ticket into this house.”

Miguel breathed a sigh of relief. But Marisa wasn’t done yet: “One last thing—to you. I’m not going back to the way things were. I need time. Starting today, you’re leaving the house for a while. The kids are staying with me. If after six months, you demonstrate change through actions—not promises—I’ll consider marriage therapy. If not, I’ll take another path.”

Miguel bowed his head: “I understand.”

In the days that followed, Manila was awash in sunshine. Marisa moved the children’s bedroom to their bedroom, and instituted evening reading time—each child a baybayin story about ancient heroines, so they would know that power has no gender. She and Atty. Reyes worked with the bank to temporarily freeze the irregular transfers, and set up an Education Fund for all three children—the custodian was an independent charity.

She took the initiative to send a message to the woman in Ortigas: “Your child’s support will be managed by a third party. Meeting schedules—please go through a lawyer. Don’t drag your child into the adult war. You have the right to be a mother. But from today, there is no more ‘our happy home’. Only your child and my child—both respected.”

No answer. But two weeks later, Doña Beatriz—unexpectedly—came to the Ortigas apartment with Marisa. This time, Doña brought a gift for the boy and two boxes of cookies for Marisa’s two girls. She spoke to the woman in a tone that was different from usual: “I apologize for hurting your daughter by saying ‘I can’t give birth to a son.’ From now on, my son—Miguel—will arrange things so that the children don’t suffer any more injuries. And you—my apo—will go to school properly, without any secrets.”

The woman was embarrassed, her eyes filled with tears, and finally she just nodded. Marisa stood there, neither winning nor losing—only feeling a weight lighten in her chest.

Six months, Manila entered the Christmas season—parols hung in the windows. Miguel sent a single email to Marisa, with a schedule of meetings with the kids, a receipt for his personal therapy session, a certificate from a nonprofit called “Responsible Fatherhood,” and a photo of him handing out lunches at a community program run by the Santos Group—no cameras, no stage, just a sunny afternoon in Tondo.

Marisa opened each file, her hands no longer shaking. She looked out at the balcony: the two kids were pasting green cellophane parols, giggling as ribbons caught in their hair. Below, Ayala Street’s headlights flowed like a river.

The phone rang. Atty. Reyes texted: “The Family Constitution has been re-signed. Article 7 remains: ‘not gender.’ Congratulations.”

Marisa closed her eyes. She remembered that rainy night in the Ortigas parking lot—the smell of wet concrete and broken hearts. She wondered: Should she give Miguel a chance? Then she went back in, knelt down to help him put up the parols. The green light fell on the faces of the three of them like a ray of hope.

“Mommy, is my parol pretty?” the older child asked.

“Pretty.” Marisa smiled. “Because I made it myself.”

The door opened. Doña Beatriz stood there, holding the noche buena basket. She wasn’t wearing her usual bold lipstick; her expression was softer than ever. She put the basket down, embarrassed: “I… learned to make puto bumbong. It’s not as good as the ones in church.” Then she looked at the two children: “Apo, show Lola how to hang the parol.”

They fought for her hand. Marisa leaned against the door, silent. She knew: it wasn’t over. There would be times when she would slip back into old phrases; there would be days when Miguel would stumble. But like the parol—which only lit when there was a candle inside—the family would only stand if it had a new fire at its center: respect and children.

As night fell, Marisa opened her mailbox. She wrote Miguel a short note: “I’m not going back to the way things were. But we can start a second round—no fronts, no secrets. The terms remain the same. Meet in the couples’ room, Saturday 9.” She hit send. Outside, the parols swayed softly in the Manila evening wind.

The story wasn’t over. But this time, the scriptwriter for her life was no longer someone else.
Marisa sat down, penciling a small line in her notebook: “Today’s lesson: Happiness isn’t something to brag about, it’s something you dare to fix.