I thought my wife would be a dutiful daughter-in-law who would take care of my elderly father, but I was completely devastated when I came home early one afternoon and discovered the horrifying truth.

My life was supposed to be peaceful in the arms of my small family. I am Gabriel “Gabo” Santos, a man with a stable job in Quezon City, a decent house. Tatay Ben—my father—had worked hard all his life in the fields in Nueva Ecija, and now that he was old and weak, I brought him up to live with me so that I could take care of him. I believed that my wife, Maya, would love him like her own father. I was absorbed in work and social events, thinking that as long as I brought home money, everything would be fine. I was too careless.

Maya is beautiful and good at communication. In front of me and my relatives, she was always a model daughter-in-law: she cooked well and kept the house tidy. I never doubted her love and “devotion.” But behind the perfect shell was a cruel truth: in her eyes, Tatay was not a relative, but a burden.

Since Nanay passed away, I brought Tatay to Manila to enjoy his old age. I wanted him to be at peace. But he never had that. At home, Maya treated Tatay like an unpaid servant: sweeping, mopping, washing dishes, lighting the stove—despite his trembling hands and hunched back. Once, Tatay called me, his voice weak: “Anak, Tatay is so tired.” I thought it was a common complaint of an old person.

I had no idea that Tatay’s meals were just leftovers. The best dishes were served to me and Maya; Tatay’s portion was the cold remains. A father who had sacrificed his whole life, now suffered humiliation in his own home.

One afternoon, I came home early. Opening the door, the scene left me speechless: Tatay sitting on the floor of the sala, his body emaciated, his hands shaking as he tried to wipe the floor. On the dining table were… plates of cold leftovers. Maya sat watching the telenovela, expressionless. I asked Tatay if he was okay; he shook his head, his eyes red. Suspicion rose. I quietly asked the neighbors in the barangay. The truth was revealed: they had seen Tatay being ordered to do heavy work many times, eating frugally, sometimes being scolded.

Each story was like a stab. I felt I was to blame, blind, putting all my trust in the wrong place. A few days later, Tatay was exhausted and had to be hospitalized. The doctor concluded that he was severely exhausted and mentally damaged. Sitting by his bedside, looking at his pale face, I burst into tears. I apologized. Tatay held my hand, whispering: “Don’t be sad, anak. Tatay is fine.”

That shock woke me up. Money and status suddenly became meaningless if exchanged for indifference to one’s parents. I decided to take Tatay out on my own to take care of him and make up for the rest of my life.

When I talked to Maya, she was still cold, thinking that I was “overdoing it”. I understood that we could not continue. In the Philippines, the “divorce” procedure is not as common as in other places, so I chose to separate and proceed with the annulment procedure. Everything went smoothly; I did not ask for anything, just wanted to free both of us and bring Tatay back to peace.

After that, Tatay and I moved to a small apartment in Mandaluyong. Life was simpler, but warmer. I stopped chasing fame, learned to cook—from lugaw (porridge), tinola, sinigang—to laundry and cleaning. Every morning, I made kapé barako for Tatay, in the afternoon I took him to Quezon Memorial Circle for a walk, and on weekends I stopped by Rizal Park to enjoy the breeze. Tatay told stories about the village of Nueva Ecija, and I listened like a child, feeling my heart soften.

Gradually, Tatay got better. He ate well, slept well, and smiled a lot. His eyes were also radiant. Seeing Tatay happy, I was incredibly happy. I understood that happiness does not lie in money, but in love and sharing.

I still work, but know how to balance. I learned to live slowly, to appreciate the little things: a hot meal, a simple question “Has Tatay eaten yet?” I took Tatay to visit old friends, and listened to him tell life lessons. Tatay was not only the one who gave birth to me, but also my greatest teacher.

I no longer hate Maya. I choose to forgive, hoping that she will soon find happiness and learn from her mistakes. As for me, I have found myself again: a dutiful son, a man who knows how to put his family first.

Now, every morning when I wake up and see Tatay smiling, I know I have reached true peace—a peace that money cannot buy. I will continue to live a meaningful life, so as not to let down Tatay and what I have. Because family love is the most precious thing.

I have lost many things, but then found many things: fatherly love, peace, and myself. My journey to find happiness continues—a little bit each day—on the crowded streets of Manila, with Tatay Ben walking slowly beside me, and my heart lighter than ever.