Picking up my husband’s phone on the MRT-3 train heading towards North Avenue, I suddenly received a call from Mama Lydia—my mother-in-law. I picked up, and before I could say hello, three words of Tagalog rang out on the other end:

“Nakuha na ba?”

Just three words and my mind was dizzy. I asked tremblingly:

— What money did you say?

She paused for a few seconds and then mumbled:

— Oh… I dialed the wrong number.

But there was a clear panic in her voice. Feeling that something was wrong, I stopped going to the company and stopped by a coffee shop in Ortigas. My hands were still shaking as I opened the phone of my husband—Adrian Santos—that I had mistakenly picked up. The text messages between Adrian and Mama Lydia appeared coldly: they were secretly discussing how to get 1.2 million pesos (the money my mother gave me for protection before the wedding). In the message, the mother-in-law wrote:

— “Can’t let him keep the money, women spend recklessly. Let the child hold it to feel secure.”

— “Slowly win him over, get his card information. Don’t let him suspect.”

I read it and tears fell down my face. The man I trusted with all my heart, the mother-in-law I respected, turned out to treat me like a walking wallet.

I used to think I was lucky. Adrian and I met at a friends’ party in Makati: he was simple with a white shirt, a gentle smile and eyes that made my heart skip a beat. Despite my friends’ advice, I took the initiative to approach him. We dated for three years and then got married. His family background was normal: his parents were retired civil servants in Caloocan, his younger brother Paolo was still in school. As for me—Mira Dela Cruz—I was born into a business family in San Juan, and I had never lacked anything since I was young. But when it came to love, I never considered the difference as a problem; as long as two people were sincere, all difficulties would be overcome.

Before the wedding day, my mother—Nanay Teresa—gave me a bank card:
— Mira, here are 1.2 million pesos that I saved for you. If anything happens, you still have a way out. Don’t tell your husband.

I laughed and waved:
— You’ve thought too much, we don’t have any secrets.

That night, I told Adrian everything. He hugged me, his eyes red:
— Honey, you’re so good to me. I promise I will never let you down.

I believed him. But just a few days later, Mama Lydia used the excuse of “taking care of the newlyweds” to move in with us in a townhouse in Quezon City—a dowry my parents gave me. I was happy because I thought I had someone to support me. Then I realized that she kept asking about my salary and savings, hinting that women shouldn’t spend lavishly, but should know how to save. I was still patient—being a daughter-in-law, who isn’t—until this morning, when I picked up the wrong phone and heard those three words.

That afternoon, I went home. Seeing Adrian, I no longer felt love—only strangeness. I put the phone on the table, my voice cold:
— Explain. What you and your mother texted each other… was it true?

Adrian turned pale, stammering:
— Honey, it’s not like what you think…

I interrupted:
— Do you think I’m stupid? I take care of everything in the house. This house is mine, you and your mother live there without spending a penny. Now you want to take the money my mother gave me for yourself? You’re too heartless.

Mama Lydia walked out of the room, her voice harsh:
— Why are you making such a big deal out of it? The daughter-in-law’s money is also the money of this house, not anyone else’s!

I laughed bitterly. I looked straight at Adrian, my eyes dry:
— We’re getting a divorce. This house belongs to me. Please, you and your mother move out as soon as possible. As for the other money, don’t even dream of touching a penny.

Adrian panicked, but I had made up my mind. In the Philippines, the legal procedure is annulment, I followed the correct procedure. I couldn’t be with someone who was willing to side with his mother to deceive his wife.

Almost a year after the end of that marriage, I lived alone in BGC – Taguig: free, peaceful. No more conflict-filled meals, no more calculating conversations. I was transferred to the Ortigas branch. Here, I met Gabriel Navarro—the head of the technical department, quiet, calm, always silently caring for the smallest things: reminding me to bring an umbrella when it was about to rain, changing shifts for me when my mother was sick, helping me fix a locked filing cabinet.

We talked more. He never asked about my past, did not judge me because I had broken up. In his eyes, I was a strong, kind woman and worthy of love.

One afternoon after work, he gave me a glass of iced calamansi, smiling:

— I’m not in a hurry. But if one day you want to start over, remember that I’m still here.

I didn’t answer. But in my heart, for the first time in a long time, warmth returned. I understood: not everyone is trustworthy, but don’t lose hope in good people because of a bad person.

Life sometimes forces us to go through pain to learn to love ourselves. Once we know how to love ourselves, we are no longer afraid of losing anyone. I—who was hurt by a calculated marriage—still believe that true happiness will come, just a little late.