My mother-in-law keeps bragging about her dutiful daughter who gives her money every month. The daughter-in-law is “useless.” I answered with one sentence that made her turn pale…

Every morning, the voice of Mrs. Năm echoed through the small apartment tucked in a quiet alley of Quezon City. She liked to lean against the kitchen doorway, fanning herself with a palm-leaf fan, eyes darting toward her daughter-in-law who was busy making breakfast.

“Girls from good families are truly filial,” she stressed each word. “This month Trang sent me 5,000 pesos again. Not a peso short. My daughter is thorough in everything she does.”

An—the daughter-in-law—set a bowl of hot soup on the table. She only smiled. “Please eat before it gets cold, Mom.”

But Mrs. Năm wouldn’t let a meal interrupt the flow of praising her daughter and criticizing her daughter-in-law. “Daughters-in-law these days are strange. They think having a job makes them capable, but no matter how capable, it’s nothing compared to filial devotion. Take my Trang—she’s so busy, yet every month she remembers to send me 5,000 pesos for pocket money.”

An bent down to wipe a splash of soup without replying. Minh—An’s husband—sat at the head of the table and looked up, signaling to his mother to stop. Seeing that, Mrs. Năm raised her voice even more: “I’m just telling the truth—am I wrong?”

All day, An took the jeepney to the office, and only in the late afternoon did she swing by the market for some vegetables and fish. At night she cooked and did the laundry. Minh was a site engineer and often worked overtime, so most of the housework fell to An. Each time her mother-in-law brought up that “filial 5,000 pesos,” her chest tightened—not because of the money, but because of the feeling of being placed on a scale and compared.

That night, An pulled out the household ledger. She wrote down each expense: rent, utilities, the small amount she gave her sister for watching little Bin a few evenings, medicine for her own mother back in the province, then the neighborhood association dues. Her pen stopped at the line “Mother.” That line had been blank for a long time because An feared upsetting her mother-in-law if she found out the daughter-in-law also sent money to her own mother. An thought, perhaps it was time.

On Sunday, the family sat down to a meal of sour fish soup and a plate of chicken adobo An had learned to make from a vendor at the market. Just as she picked up a piece of chicken, Mrs. Năm opened her phone to flaunt the transfer notification: “See? My Trang has sent 5,000 pesos again. Now that’s a daughter! She never lets me want for anything.”

Minh sighed and set his chopsticks down. An smiled lightly, her tone casual:
“Yes, your daughter is truly filial. Seeing her makes me feel I’m not as good as she is.”

Hearing that, Mrs. Năm’s eyes lit up, thinking her daughter-in-law had finally “seen the light.” “Good that you know! A daughter-in-law should follow good examples.”

An stood, took an envelope from her bag, and placed it on the table. “I’ve thought about it and see that I can’t match Sister Trang. So starting this month, I will also send my own mother 5,000 pesos every month. I need to practice being as filial as she is.”

A spoon fell with a soft clink into a bowl. Minh looked up, surprised. And Mrs. Năm… was stunned speechless.

Her lips moved but no sound came out. She stared at the envelope as if a mirror had suddenly been held up to her face. In that moment, the kitchen fell utterly silent; only the clock ticked.

An pulled out a chair, sat down, and poured her mother-in-law a cup of tea. Her voice remained gentle:
“I know you adore Sister Trang, and I’m glad she’s devoted to you. But I also have a mother—someone who sold grain and bundles of clothes so I could study and move here to make a living. I’ve kept quiet for fear of upsetting you. Now I think filial piety is a matter between each child and their own parents. I don’t want to fall short of her in that.”

Mrs. Năm blinked, her breath catching in her throat. She suddenly remembered An’s hushed phone calls on the balcony, asking if her mother’s back still hurt, whether she had taken her medicine, whether the cough had eased. She remembered the times An quietly slipped fresh vegetables into her purse, saying she’d put them on the bus to send back home. Those small images, thin as sheets of paper, stacked into a thick pile she had long refused to read.

Minh cleared his throat, breaking the stillness:
“I think An is right. We can manage our finances, Mom, don’t worry. I’ll keep handling the rent and utilities. As for my wife’s duty to her own mother, let her decide.”

An nodded and looked straight into her mother-in-law’s eyes:
“I’ll keep taking care of our household as before—please don’t worry about lacking anything. It’s just that from now on, every month I’ll transfer 5,000 pesos to my mother. The same amount Sister Trang sends you. I think that’s fair. And it will remind me not to forget where I come from.”

Mrs. Năm gripped the palm-leaf fan. On her phone screen, the words “Transfer Successful” still glowed. Her throat suddenly felt dry. All this time, in her story of “filial piety,” she had told only half. She saw only the hand her daughter stretched out to her, forgetting the hand her daughter-in-law wanted to stretch toward her own mother. She set the fan aside and laced her fingers together.

“An…”—she called, her voice no longer sharp—“Did… did I talk too much?”

An smiled. “You just love Sister Trang, Mom. Who doesn’t like being praised?”

“Mm… but I forgot that… you have a mother too.” She glanced down at the plate of adobo, then looked up, speaking slowly: “From now on… I won’t compare anymore. As for you sending money to your mother, do as you see fit. I have no objections.”

Minh exhaled in relief. He picked up a piece of chicken breast for his mother and joked, “Eat before it gets cold, or you’ll say it’s as bad as your daughter-in-law’s cooking.”

Mrs. Năm laughed—a little embarrassed. She took a bite and chewed slowly. The sweet-savory taste brought her back to herself. She turned to An, almost without thinking:
“This chicken is good. You… cooked it better than last time.”

An said nothing but murmured a soft “yes.” In her eyes, a small light flickered.

Late that night, after Minh had finished the dishes, An sat by the window and texted her mother: “Mom, starting this month I’ll send you 5,000 pesos every month. Don’t worry, I’m doing fine.” The reply came right away: “No need, dear—save it for yourself.” An smiled and typed: “I want to—so I can learn to be as filial as my sister-in-law.”

Before she could hit send, a notification popped up in the family group: “Trang: Mom, I’m a bit tight this month. Can I send only 2,000 pesos?” Below it came a new message from Mrs. Năm: “It’s okay. Keep it for yourself. I’m fine—An is here taking care of me.”

An looked up in surprise. Minh had seen it too and squinted with a smile.

A moment later, An’s phone buzzed again. A private message from Mrs. Năm: “Are you asleep? I’m sorry for always comparing. Tomorrow I’ll go to the market early to buy banana leaves and make suman for you to take to work. You like it, but I’ve never made it for you.”

Warmth flooded An’s chest as she read the words. She replied: “Thank you, Mom. I’ll get up early to help you.”

Outside, the alley deepened into night, the breeze carrying the scent of young banana leaves and fresh rice. In the kitchen, the pot not yet put away still radiated warmth. Some things must go a long way around only to return to two simple words: fairness and respect. And sometimes, a single straightforward sentence—“I will also send my mother 5,000 pesos”—is enough to make someone look into themselves and fall silent… and understand.