I Left My Wife and Children in Manila to Return to the Province and Care for My Elderly Parents. After Half a Year, My Father-in-Law Called and Offered Me 3 Million Pesos.

I grew up in Batangas, in a poor family. To give us children a brighter future, my parents — Tatay Isko and Nanay Lourdes — worked themselves to the bone. They were farmers, spending their sweat and blood just so we could finish college.

When my sister and I finally graduated, we both promised we would take care of them in their old age. But once we had our own families, everyone became too busy, and no one seemed to remember those promises anymore.

My sister married a useless man — always drinking, never working steadily — so she couldn’t support our parents. As for me, I had a stable job in Manila with decent income, but I was living in my wife’s family home as a live-in son-in-law.

In my wife Maricel’s house, I felt like a stranger. Her parents treated me coldly. Even when Maricel was wrong, I couldn’t correct her, afraid her parents would scold me. Many times, my friends invited me for a drink, but I had to refuse, haunted by Maricel’s piercing stares and my mother-in-law’s endless nagging.

Once, when I was sick, my parents came from Batangas to care for me. They planned to stay a week, but because of my wife’s cold treatment, they returned home the very next day. After that, they never came to visit me again.

Every New Year, I wanted to go back to Batangas on New Year’s Eve to celebrate with them, but I was always forced to spend the first three days of the holiday at my wife’s family home. Only then could I visit my own parents. In 17 years of marriage, Maricel could count on one hand the times she accompanied me to my hometown.

One day, I learned my father was sick. When I went back to see him, a neighbor advised me:
– “Your parents are already in their 80s. Whenever they get sick, they can’t go to the hospital by themselves. Sometimes, out of shame, they don’t even ask neighbors for help, so they just buy cheap antibiotics and worsen their condition. You children need to make time to care for them.”

Those words cut me deeply.

When I returned to Manila, I asked Maricel about taking care of my parents. She replied coldly:
– “I can’t even take care of my own parents, so why should I take care of yours?”

I asked my in-laws if we could bring my parents to Manila, but they didn’t care. Maricel said:
– “If you love them, then go home and look after them. I don’t want any part of it.”

It was painful, but true.

So I made my choice: I resigned from my job, left my wife and children in Manila, and went back to Batangas to take care of my parents.

Six months have passed. Now my father is much healthier, and my mother smiles more often. Every day, I cook for them and make sure they take their medicines. Sometimes Nanay asks about Maricel and the children, and I just say,
– “She’s too busy with work to come.”
But in truth, Maricel simply doesn’t want anything to do with my family.

One day, my father-in-law called, asking me to come to Manila. When I arrived, both he and my mother-in-law greeted me warmly, with Maricel acting cheerful, as if she had missed me so much.

Then my father-in-law said:
– “Son, we will give you 3 million pesos. Take Maricel and the children back to Batangas. We don’t want to interfere with your life anymore. What matters is that you fulfill your duty as a son and care for your parents.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe their generosity. My father-in-law explained:
– “Since you left, Maricel hasn’t been able to discipline your two boys. If this continues, they’ll go astray. That’s why we want you to take them back with you. We know you can guide them better.”

And at that moment, I realized: even though my path was painful, even though my wife abandoned me for my choice, the day finally came when her family recognized my worth as a man, as a father, and as a son

After much persuasion from my father-in-law, I agreed to bring Maricel and our two boys back to Batangas. At first, it wasn’t easy. Maricel had grown accustomed to city life — the convenience, the malls, the endless noise of Manila. She complained about the slower pace, the lack of luxury, and even about my parents’ simple way of living.

But I stayed patient. Every time she raised her voice, I reminded myself why I had chosen this path: to honor my parents and to be present for my children.

The first few weeks were difficult. My sons, restless and spoiled from city living, struggled with the quiet of provincial life. They missed their gadgets, their fast food, and their friends. But slowly, Batangas began to teach them lessons no school in Manila ever could.

Tatay brought them to the rice fields and showed them how to plant seedlings, explaining how patience and hard work bring a harvest. Nanay taught them how to cook adobo and sinigang with fresh vegetables from the garden, laughing when they made a mess but praising their efforts.

I noticed the changes. My boys began waking up early, running barefoot in the yard, helping their lola feed the chickens, and calling out “Tatay!” with pride when my father showed them something new.

Maricel, too, softened. One evening, she came out to the porch and saw Nanay sewing under the light of a kerosene lamp. Nanay looked up and smiled, offering to teach her. For the first time in years, I saw Maricel kneel beside my mother, listening quietly, her hands fumbling with thread but her heart finally opening.

Day by day, the walls she had built began to crumble.

Respect Restored

Months passed, and my father-in-law visited Batangas. He was astonished by what he saw. His grandsons, once unruly, now greeted him with respectful bows and stories about helping in the fields. Maricel, once stubborn, served him a cup of salabat tea she had prepared herself with Nanay’s guidance.

He pulled me aside and whispered, “Son, I underestimated you. You’ve done what none of us could. You’ve made this family whole again.”

Those words were the affirmation I had been longing to hear — not for pride, but for peace.

A Warm Ending

Years rolled on. My parents, though frail, lived their final days surrounded by love and laughter. They passed away peacefully, holding hands, knowing they had raised not just children, but a family that learned to stay together.

My boys grew into fine young men, disciplined and kind-hearted. They carried the lessons of Batangas — respect, humility, and responsibility — into everything they did.

And Maricel… she changed the most. No longer the cold wife who once looked down on my parents, she became their daughter in every sense, even mourning them as if they were her own. She later admitted, with tears in her eyes:
“I was wrong all those years. You chose the harder road, but it was the right one. Thank you for not giving up on me, on us.”

On a quiet afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, I sat on the porch with my family — Maricel beside me, our sons laughing with neighbors in the yard. For the first time in decades, my heart felt completely at peace.

The respect of my in-laws had returned. My sons had grown into men I could be proud of. And Maricel, my once-distant wife, now held my hand firmly, as though to say: We made it, together.

In the end, it wasn’t money, nor success in the city, that gave meaning to my life.
It was choosing family — and never forgetting where I truly belonged.