Discovering my mother-in-law sneaking into the cornfield to be “intimate” with a strange man, I was scared and ran home, not daring to say anything. Unexpectedly, the next morning a horrifying scene happened in front of the house…
I am Mira, living with my mother-in-law Aling Lorna and my husband, Ramon, in a small house in a peaceful barangay in Isabela province. My mother-in-law is strict and neat. Therefore, when I accidentally saw her sneaking into the cornfield behind the house at dusk, I was stunned. Through the cornfield, I saw her being intimate with a strange man about her age, dressed in simple farmer’s clothes. Frightened and confused, I did not dare to speak up, quietly returning home.

That night, I told Ramon everything, my voice trembling. He just kept quiet, frowned, and said: “Let me handle it.”

The next morning, the whole barangay was in an uproar. PNP, along with barangay tanod and representatives of FPA – Fertilizer and Pesticide Authority, showed up and sealed off the cornfield behind my house. I panicked, thinking that the “affair” had been exposed, but the truth was even more shocking. They dug up the exact spot I saw last night and pulled out large plastic containers filled with white chemical packets. The officials confirmed that it was… smuggled/fake fertilizer, without a FPA license, in sufficient quantity to supply the entire area.

It turned out that the man I saw was not my mother-in-law’s lover. He was Mang Tomas, an old friend from Aling Lorna’s time at the agricultural cooperative. After the kooperatiba was dissolved, Mang Tomas switched to selling fertilizers, then fell into a fake fertilizer ring. Knowing that Aling Lorna had a large cornfield, he convinced her to hide the goods in the field, promising to share the profits. Because she was broke after many years of taking care of Ramon’s education, she agreed. Last night, they made an appointment to check the goods before moving.

Ramon, after hearing my story, became suspicious because he knew his mother was not easily swayed by love affairs. That night, he secretly went to the fields to check, discovered suspicious plastic containers and reported to the PNP, leading to this morning’s raid. When questioned, Aling Lorna honestly admitted, saying that she only wanted to earn more money to repair the house. Mang Tomas was detained for investigation, and she was released on bail because of her small role and cooperation.

The whole village was gossiping, but Ramon did not blame his mother. He only said to me: “She was wrong, but she was also worried about the family. Now we have to help her overcome this.” I breathed a sigh of relief, but every time I looked out at the cornfield, I still shivered – wondering what other secrets were hidden among the green rows of mais in the fertile Isabela region.

— “Under the Moist Soil”

The morning after the raid, the PNP’s yellow tape was still fluttering in front of the cornfield. The young maize ears suddenly became the backdrop for the entire barangay to gossip. From the sari-sari store at the end of the alley to the tricycle parked at the edge of the field, everywhere people were saying: “Did Aling Lorna get caught in a contraband?”; “Mang Tomas was handcuffed right there!”

I — Mira — stood in the yard, my hands wet with dishwater, my heart in turmoil. Ramon walked into the kitchen, his voice hoarse from all the night with the police.

“FPA has sent samples for testing,” he said. “I heard that it’s not just fake fertilizer — there are also impurities that can harm the soil.”

I looked at him. “What about Mom?”

“I’ll invite you to the barangay hall this afternoon. Mom is out on bail, but… you have to cooperate.”

In the middle room, Aling Lorna sat as still as a statue. The sunlight slanted through the window, and this was the first morning I had seen her without her hair tied back. The silver streaks were exposed, unusually fragile.

“Mom…” I called softly.

She nodded, her eyes not looking at us but at the cornfield marked with stakes. “I thought burying it in the ground would bury all my worries,” she said, her voice hoarse, “but I ended up burying my family’s honor as well.”

The barangay hall was more crowded than the market that day. The Kapitan sat in the middle, flanked by tanods, FPA officials, DA representatives, and a female DSWD employee. Lorna recounted slowly, from the day Mang Tomas came to visit: a handshake from an old friend, a promise to share the profits, a long slide into poverty.

“I think… just a few weeks,” she said, her wrinkled old hands trembling. “Wait until Ramon graduates from his master’s degree. I’ll stop.”

Ramon squeezed his mother’s hand gently. He didn’t cry, but I heard a sigh as if it had hit my chest.

The FPA officer pushed the file: “The sample shows chlorine impurities and some heavy metals. If it rains heavily and leaks into the irrigation ditch, the whole field could fail.”

The room erupted. Kapitan cleared his throat: “Let’s discuss two things: legal responsibility, and saving the field right in front of us.”

The PNP representative looked up: “If Aling Lorna cooperates as a witness to find clues on Mang Tomas, the prosecutor can consider reducing the sentence. But there must be evidence.”

She turned to her son. “I will do it. I will tell you everything.”

That afternoon, the PNP asked her to pretend that she was still ‘holding a place’ for Mang Tomas, who was only an intermediary. They set up a call on loudspeaker, with a recording, giving instructions on every word.

The phone rang. On the other end was a hoarse male voice.

“Lorna, may slot pa ba?”

“Yes,” she replied, her eyes unblinking. “But the FPA is checking the neighboring barangays. When will your boss get it?”

A brief moment of silence, then: “Sa bodega sa San Mateo, bukas ng gabi.”

I shivered. San Mateo — more than an hour’s drive away. The PNP nodded, quickly taking notes. An officer whispered: “Maybe the ‘boss’ is the real ringleader.

Night fell, dark clouds gathered. Amihan brought an unseasonal rain. I ran out to the porch, saw water starting to seep through the ditches. FPA and DA called a tanker truck to pump it out. Barangay health workers handed out hand sanitizer and masks; tanods spread tarps over the digging fields. Everything was happening in a hurry, wet and cold, smelling of dirt and worry.

“Let me help,” I told Ramon, quickly slipping on a pair of plastic sandals.

“Stay home with Mom,” he held me back, but Aling Lorna gently stopped her hand: “Let her go. She is the daughter-in-law of this family — and this field is also her home.”

I stepped out into the rain. People were passing sandbags around, building temporary ditches to block the water. A DA officer explained to the villagers how to isolate the flow to avoid spreading impurities. The sound of rain hitting the raincoats was like countless hands. Meanwhile, Kapitan went from house to house, telling those who planted vegetables near the canal not to water them with ditch water for the next few days.

I looked up at the sodden yellow tape. Inside was a mother’s foolishness and the silence of the neighborhood. Outside, neighbors were passing sandbags without asking questions.

The next night, the sky cleared. San Mateo was not sleeping. In front of a shabby bodega, yellow lights were flashing. The PNP was divided into teams, the CIDG was hidden behind corrugated iron walls, license plates were covered. I sat in the car with a female officer — her hand cold in her palm.

“Okay,” the radio crackled. “The goods are coming in — three people, a pickup truck, an owner-type.”

The bodega door clicked open. A man in his fifties, his shirt untucked, rolled his eyes warily. “Lorna?” he asked, looking around.

Aling Lorna emerged with a female investigator posing as her niece. She placed a bag containing several bags of ‘bait’ on the scale.

“Marunong ka pa rin pumili ng lugar ha,” he laughed. “Tahimik dito.”

“Silence is only when one knows when to stop,” she replied, looking straight ahead.

“Game na,” he clapped his hands. “Load n’yo na sa truck—”

“PNP! Don’t move!”

The shout tore through the air. The flashlight shone brightly. The man backed away, about to rush out the back door, but the tanod blocked it, locking his arms. The two stevedores were bewildered, not yet understanding what was happening. On the table were marked money, in the truck were white bags with fake labels.

“Victor Delgado,” the officer read the arrest warrant, “you are under arrest for manufacturing and distributing fake fertilizer and trafficking in contraband.”

The man looked around, his eyes meeting Aling Lorna’s. There was no resentment, just a smile as thin as a knife: “Matapang ka, Lorna.”

She did not answer. She straightened her shoulders, as if this moment facing the darkness was the only time she was allowed to breathe.

The arrest took a toll on my barangay. The FPA reported that the contaminants had been isolated in time, the farmland was not contaminated beyond the threshold; the smuggled bags were collected, sealed and sent to the lab. The PNP shared credit with the cooperating witness — Aling Lorna was mentioned without being stoned.

Still, the court had to decide. The law is the law. She was charged with assisting but was offered a suspended sentence and community service in exchange for her cooperation that led to the dismantling of the Delgado ring. The DSWD recommended her for a community service program: working with the FPA, DA on safe fertilizers

The day she stood in front of the barangay cultural center to speak, Ramon and I sat in the front row. She removed the microphone and spoke softly, as if telling a family story.

“I used to think that poverty was the most shameful thing,” she began. “It turns out that the most shameful thing is to let poverty push you to do wrong things. I apologize to my children, to my neighbors, and to the very field that has fed me for so many years.”

Someone clapped first, then many others followed. I saw Kapitan nod; Nanay at the back of the yard blinked. Suddenly, an old woman stood up, leaning on her cane and walked forward: “Lorna, matagal na tayong magkapitbahay. I ang magtatanim, ikaw ang magtuturo sa akin kung alin ang ligtas. Tapos na ‘to.”

Lorna smiled, bowing her head deeply.

A few weeks later, the yellow bandage was removed. The DA tested the fertilizer for the new crop, and organized a small training session right on the edge of the field. Ramon, my mother, and I started to dig the rows of mais. The soil after the rain was soft like a word of forgiveness. My mother-in-law put on her hat, rolled up her pants, no longer as neat as a statue, but a simple farmer in the sun.

“I think you should buy a new hat,” I joked, pointing to the worn-out hat.

“Keep it like this for a long time,” she replied, “wearing a new one will make me forget that I was absent-minded.”

Ramon planted a marker, turned to the two women who were cutting furrows together, his eyes as light as the early-season wind.

That night, when I went out to the porch to get the clothes to dry, I saw a brown envelope on the steps. No one, no sound of a car. I opened it — inside was an old, ink-stained notebook page: a list of import dates, bag numbers, and next to it were names. There was one I recognized: Victor Delgado. Something else gave me the chills: a town official who had come to the house to solicit donations a few storms ago.

In the corner of the paper was a line written in pencil, like a trace of wind:

“Hindi pa tapos.” — Not finished.

I looked across the yard: Aling Lorna was trimming the last kernels of corn; Ramon was pulling the hose, laughing and talking to his mother. The wind from the fields blew into the porch, carrying the smell of wet grass and the sound of insects.

I put the paper in my pocket and walked down the steps.

“Ramon,” I called, trying to keep my voice calm, “let’s stop by PNP again tomorrow.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. We didn’t need to say much. Some secrets weren’t buried in the ground — they were in the books someone thought were hidden.

On the newly mounded mound, a corn sprout had just emerged. Tiny, but stubbornly pushing its way through the dirt. I suddenly felt light: the earth had cracked to make room for the sprouts — and we, too, had to learn to crack out of fear.