I pressed my husband—Jerome Santos—but he remained silent. The more silent he was, the more scared I became.

Since I became a daughter-in-law in Quezon City (Metro Manila), one thing that has always bothered me is that my biological mother—Aling Teresa—rarely came to visit. Every time I suggested that she come to Manila from San Pablo, Laguna, she would find excuses: “I still have to look after the garden and the sari-sari shop at home,” “traveling far is tiring,” or “I can do it another time.” At first, I thought it was simple: my mother was afraid of bothering me, afraid that people would say she was “clinging to her daughter.” But as time went on, her avoidance became more obvious.

Once, my husband’s family held a year-long memorial service (babang-luksa) for Lolo Santos at a relative’s house in Cavite. I begged her for a long time before she reluctantly came. During the meal, she spoke very little, just sat in a corner, her eyes avoiding anyone. I still remember when I said goodbye, my mother held my hand tightly and said softly, “Just be a good girl, don’t let anyone hate you.” At that time, I just thought my mother was worrying too much, but behind that sentence was a truth that made me choke up.

One evening, when I was cleaning the living room of our apartment in Barangay Loyola Heights, my husband’s phone vibrated with a text message. The screen showed a message from an unknown number: “Don’t worry, I will never set foot in that house. I just hope my daughter will be safe.” The name saved on the phone made me speechless: “Lola Teresa.” I opened it and read it with trembling hands. In the inbox were text messages exchanged long ago: my mother repeatedly texted my husband, begging him not to reveal the “old story”, promising never to set foot in her husband’s house again. There was a message she wrote: “I was wrong, I hope you don’t make my daughter suffer. I just want her to be safe.”

My eyes blurred. It turned out that the reason my mother avoided me was not because she was busy, not because she was shy, but because there was a secret from the past between her and my husband. I asked Jerome, but he just kept silent. The more silent I was, the more scared I felt. My head was spinning with a series of questions: Why did my husband and my mother have something to hide? What was that “old story”? Why did my mother lower herself so much?

From that day on, I no longer had the courage to invite my mother to my husband’s house. I was afraid that she would be embarrassed; I was afraid that I would see more awkward looks and gestures. I also did not dare to dig deeper, because any truth that came out could be a stab in my heart.

Many nights, lying next to my husband, I turned my back, tears wetting my pillow. I felt lost in my marriage, as if I was placed between two cliffs, not knowing which way to go. On one side was my biological mother—the one who sacrificed her whole life for me; on the other side was my husband—the one I chose to be with. And there was a secret between them, an invisible thread that I didn’t have the courage to touch.

As a result, I had to live in a state of constant torment. I no longer dared to ask my mother, nor did I dare to question my husband. There was only a vague void left, making me wonder: what was my marriage built on and would it ever collapse when the truth was revealed? Should I investigate myself? I couldn’t stand it anymore.

That night in Loyola Heights, the rain poured down. I lay with my back to Jerome, still as silent as a wall. His phone lay face down on the nightstand, light occasionally leaking in a thin strip under the edge, like a half-open eye looking at me. I knew that if I stayed in this house for another night without doing anything, I would go crazy.

The next morning, I lied to Jerome that I was going to San Pablo, Laguna to visit my mother. Actually, I was going back to ask for a clue.

San Pablo: the old trunk under the bed

My mother’s house was on a small alley behind the market. On the porch hung some bags of candy and instant noodles—her sari-sari shop was still the same: neat, clean, and quiet. When she saw me, my mother—Aling Teresa—hastily wiped her hands on her apron, her smile as forced as a leaf wet with rain.

“Did you sleep well last night?”—she asked, her eyes shifting slightly, avoiding looking directly at me.

I didn’t beat around the bush: “Mom, what’s the ‘old story’? Why did you text Jerome like that? Why did you promise never to set foot in my husband’s house?”

Mom stood still, her fingers tightening around the edge of her apron. For a moment, I saw that she wanted to speak, but then her eyes dropped.

“Come here, son.” Mom pulled me into the inner room, bent down, and pulled out from under the bed an old narra chest with a rusty lock. She opened it with a crooked key, and inside were old papers: utility bills, import receipts, several settled loan contracts—and a yellowed pawn ticket.

My heart sank: Oro Plata Pawnshop, Aurora Blvd., Cubao—the date on the ticket was 2011. The pawn: “Tamburin gold rosary + engraved jewelry box.” The teller was vague: R. Santos.

I looked at Mom. Mom’s lips trembled: “That day… I worked at the Santos house. I cleaned my great-grandmother’s room, took care of her… One night, the family’s gold necklace disappeared. I was the last one to leave the room. They called me in and asked. I… signed a paper admitting that it was my negligence that caused the loss.”

“Admitted that… I took it?”—I was hoarse.

“No,” Mom shook her head, “I didn’t take it. But if I didn’t sign, they threatened to call the police. I was… pregnant with you. I was scared.” Mom’s voice broke. “A week later, someone pawned the necklace. That slip… fell out of someone’s pocket in the yard. Mom picked it up and kept it. From then on… my family and I considered ourselves indebted to each other. I kept quiet in exchange for your peace.”

I clenched the slip, my hands cold: “Who is R. Santos? Rogelio Santos—Jerome’s father? Or Ramon… Roberto…?”

Mom squeezed my hand: “Don’t dig any deeper, my child. Your heart will hurt.”

But that was what made me know, I had to dig.

Aurora Blvd., Cubao: traces of 2011

I took the ticket to Oro Plata Pawnshop in Cubao. The glass counter was tinged with neon, the smell of metal and damp paper mixed together. I handed the ticket to the cashier, trying to keep my voice calm: “Ma’am, I’m looking for old transaction information, from 2011. I… need it for a family matter.”

She shook her head: “Data privacy. Only provided with a police or owner’s certificate.”

I was almost desperate. But when she put the ticket down, I caught a glimpse of a blurred line of text on the back screen: ‘Ticket #A-1173 — Released, 2011-09-14 — R.Santos — ID: …’. Just for a second, but enough to be etched into my memory.

Out the door, the rain poured again. I hid under the awning, my heart pounding erratically. An old black sedan was parked across the street. The window was rolled down, and a man’s voice came over, deep and deep: “Huwag ka na. Stop, little girl. If you want Nanay Teresa to be safe, don’t pry into adult matters.”

I was startled and looked straight into that half-light, half-dark face—Tito Ramon? I wasn’t sure. The car sped away, leaving a puddle of water in its wake.

My hand tightened around the slip. Fear no longer held me back—it became determination.

Facing each other in the kitchen at Loyola Heights

That night, I returned. Jerome was standing in the kitchen, stirring the tinola pot. I placed the slip on the table like a knife: “Tell me, Jerome. Who is R. Santos?”

He didn’t look at the slip, just at me. His flip-flops paused on the tile floor. After a long while, he exhaled: “Rogelio—my father. But I don’t know this. Really.”

I laughed, dry as paper: “What about the message mom sent you? ‘I was wrong, I hope you don’t hurt my daughter.’ Wrong because I signed a confession to protect… who?”

Jerome put down the spoon, finally pulled up a chair and sat across from him: “The day you agreed to marry, dad set a condition: Nanay Teresa would never set foot in the Santos house, not mention the past, in return, dad accepted you, erased some paperwork…”—he paused, “and didn’t let anyone dig up the past.”

“What paperwork?”—I heard my voice bounce off the wall, cold.

Jerome was silent for a moment: “A handwritten agreement, dad and… your mom. The key to the safe… is with Mama Sandra. I never dared to touch it.”

“Then let’s go tonight. Open the safe.” I stood up.

Jerome grabbed my hand: “Not all truths make us happy.”

I pulled his hand away: “But silence kills me every day.

Mama Sandra’s Locked Room

Mama Sandra’s house was in Cavite. The family gathered for dinner on Saturday. Tita Celia—Mama’s older sister—said sharply, “The daughter-in-law from San Pablo? That family… had lost things in the past.”

I bit my lip. Mama invited me into the room, saying I needed the passbook. This was my chance.

There was an old safe in the room. Mama took a stack of papers, turned around. I looked down at the dressing table: a bunch of keys mixed with a chain with a tamburin pendant—a small piece of gold I had seen in old photos in the house.

As Mama left the room, my heart was pounding like an Ati-Atihan drum. I tried the key. The safe opened with a click. Inside, a stack of discolored papers: IOUs, settlement agreements, old photos.

I pulled out a piece of paper with trembling hands: “On… 2011, I, Teresa D… admit my negligence that led to the loss of the Santos family’s property… commit to not sue… agree not to approach the residence… in exchange for the Santos family not to pursue legal action, no…” The ink was smudged, but my mother’s signature was clear.

Below was a copy of the pawn ticket, stamped Released in the left corner. I turned it over: the blue ballpoint pen was slanted: R.S. and a small piece of paper pinned: “Tito R… settle with pawn, keep quiet.”

I felt like I was falling off the ground. It wasn’t my mother who took it. Someone in the Santos family had pawned it, then used my mother’s signature to silence me.

“What are you doing in there?”—Mama’s voice rang out behind me.

I turned around, clutching the stack of papers: “I want to exchange silence for the truth.”

Mama looked at me, her eyes narrowed, then slowly closed the door. “In this house, the truth is the most expensive thing.” She spoke softly, each word falling like lead. “Are you sure you can pay the price?”

I swallowed. “If the price is your mother’s peace—I will pay.”

Mama’s face shook slightly. She stepped forward, one hand reaching for the papers, the other reaching out as if to hug me but not daring to. “Daughter, Celia doesn’t know everything. Rogelio—Jerome’s father—is not an innocent man. But touching this matter, you will cause many people to bleed—not physically—but in their hearts.”

I trembled. “Who then?”

The door swung open. Tita Celia appeared, followed by a man I had only seen briefly at the funeral—gray hair, sharp eyes: Tito Ramon. He squinted at the papers in my hand, the corners of his lips curling into a smile that had no warmth.

“Wow,” he said, “little San Pablo is smart. She found the A-1173 slip.”

In that moment, I knew I had hit the right chord—and the anthill had been blown up.

The power went out and the threat was over

Suddenly, the power went out. The room went dark. Screams from the kitchen, the clanking of dishes, the smell of hastily lit sampaguita candles.

Someone’s hand snatched the stack of papers from me. I instinctively held them close. In the darkness, a man’s voice was close to my ear: “If you want your mother to be safe, don’t open your mouth.”

I bit hard on the back of someone’s hand. The other person let go for a moment. Jerome rushed in, wrapped me in his arms, and pulled me toward the door. He whispered, “Go, now!”

Out in the hallway, the candlelight cast pale faces. Tita Celia clutched her chest, Mama Sandra was as still as a statue, Tito Ramon stood behind the family portrait, his eyes fixed on the bag I was holding.

Jerome pulled me to the car. On the way home, he held the steering wheel with trembling hands: “I’m sorry. I hate this more than anyone. But trust me: Dad’s not the one holding it. The R.S. on the ticket… not Rogelio.”

“Who is it?”—I hiccupped.

Jerome stared straight at the wet road: “Ramon Santos.”

Wind and rain pounded against the windshield. In my chest, another storm swirled.

3 AM text

That night, I didn’t sleep. 3:07 AM, phone vibrated: unknown number.

Don’t think you’re a detective. In Manila, secrets don’t die—they just change hands. If you remember that night in Cubao, remember: Nanay Teresa could trip at any moment.

I clutched the phone, supporting myself with anger. I texted back, my hands no longer shaking:

Try touching my mother. I’ll turn A-1173 into a billboard hanging on Aurora Blvd.

After sending it, I turned off the screen and leaned against the wall. I had never seen myself so clearly.

I would not let my mother bow her head for another day.

Tomorrow morning, I would go to the barangay hall to get a copy of the police blotter from 2011. I would go to the church to see the intention mass book for the day the rosary disappeared—who had requested a hasty mass. I would find Kuya Edgar, the Santos’s old driver, and ask who he had driven to Aurora that day. I would return to Oro Plata, this time with the official dispatch.

And I would return to San Pablo, sit in front of the narra chest with my mother, hold her hand, and say the words I should have said ten years ago:

“Mom, I’m not afraid anymore.”

In the distance, the sky had just cleared. The rain had stopped on the leaves. From the balcony, Quezon City was like a map still covered in mist—beautiful, cold, and waiting for someone stubborn to uncover its secrets.

I took a deep breath. The battle had begun