Reminding my ex-husband to send child support, his new wife texted me back with a sentence that made me mad…
I knew that if I went to court, I would be completely right because the Quezon City Family Court’s judgment clearly stated that. But doing so would only make the conflict more intense.

After the divorce, my daughter lived with me. On the day of the court hearing, my ex-husband agreed to provide ₱20,000 a month for child support. I didn’t consider it a favor — it was his responsibility. As the child grew up, school fees, food, and clothing in Metro Manila were all expensive, ₱20,000 a month was just enough. I worked in an office in Makati, my salary wasn’t high, and I had to calculate every penny every month.

Since he remarried, receiving child support has become difficult. At first, he would transfer money regularly, but then it gradually got late, sometimes I would only receive it after half a month. I texted to remind him, and he replied curtly, saying he was busy with work at BGC and asked me to understand. I tried to hold back, thinking that as long as I had money to take care of the child, that was fine.

Unexpectedly, his new wife intervened. One time I texted him asking for money, instead of him replying, his new wife picked it up and texted him this…

“Stop bothering me, my family has so many things to do. You have to raise the child yourself, why do you ask for ₱20,000 every month like a hungry leech?”

Reading that, I trembled with anger. This was the child support money according to the court’s ruling, the responsibility of the child’s father, how dare she say that?

The next time, every time I mentioned money, there would always be a message from his new wife. The words became more and more harsh: “extortion”, “using the child to get money”, one time she even said that from next month she would only send ₱10,000, if she didn’t accept, she would take care of it herself. I wanted to call my ex-husband directly, but he avoided me, saying: “Don’t make a fuss, it will affect my family.” It was bitter to hear: his family is important, but what about his daughter?

My daughter is 10 years old this year, starting to understand things. Once, she saw me frowning because of a text message, and asked: “Mom, dad doesn’t want to send me money anymore?” I choked up, not knowing how to answer. I was afraid that my daughter would be hurt, afraid that she would see me as a burden.

I knew that if I went back to the court in Quezon City to request enforcement of the judgment, I was completely right. But that way, the conflict would be more tense, and my daughter would feel more guilty when she saw her parents confronting each other. I just wanted a peaceful life for my daughter, and that small benefit was hard to keep. There were times when I thought about not receiving the allowance anymore, but then my daughter might have to transfer to the province to study, and her future would not be as good as now — she was studying at a good school in Pasig, and could go to a gifted class. That would be a disadvantage for her.

But at this rate, I’m also frustrated. I don’t know whether to be patient to keep my child’s rights, or to let go to have peace. In the middle of crowded Manila, sometimes the hardest thing is not to make money, but to keep a child in peace — even if it’s just a text message that doesn’t sound harsh until the end of the month.

— Storm Signal 3, 11:11 Call, and Handwritten “Emergency Provisions”
Storm Signal 3

Friday afternoon, PAGASA raises the storm warning to level 3. “Walang pasok” messages come in bursts on parents’ phones. I run across Quezon Avenue with an umbrella, my mind as troubled as the dark clouds above me. According to the Court Order, my child will be with me this weekend; the handover point is at the barangay hall. But the MMDA says the bridge may be closed if the water rises.

11:11, the phone vibrates. Not 0:07 — I’m still startled.

New wife (text): “The school just asked who picked him up early. He’s stuck at EDSA. Can I pick him up with the emergency authorization? I’ll take him straight to the barangay hall, sign the receipt properly.”

I look at the rain that’s as thick as a curtain. A brief hesitation, then I type:
“Okay. Write down the time-minute, turn on GPS, keep in touch.”
A word “Okay.” appeared. No knife, no thorn.

School gate in the rain

I arrived at the same time as she carried her child out. The daughter hugged her bag, her eyes bright:
— “Mom! She brought an extra raincoat for me.”

She handed me a second children’s raincoat:
— “I left it in the trunk… just in case.”

We walked side by side to the barangay hall. The rain whipped past our faces. The girl walked in the middle, holding two women who didn’t like each other. In the signing room, I signed, she signed, the tanod stamped “Handed over.” Legal, correct. But not as cold as I thought.
Wheezing cough

That night, at exactly 2am, the phone rang — not 00:07, not 08:30 — but a call. Him:
— “The child is wheezing badly. I’m on St. Luke’s QC. Can you… go straight to the ER? I’ve called the barangay, emergency.”

My pulse spiked. I remembered my co-parenting plan: item 4, emergency situation — “Let go of all hatred, call each other first, call the court later.” I sped away. In the cold, alcohol-scented ER, my child was wearing a nebulizer, eyes wet but calm. I faced him. His new wife stood behind, holding a bag of medicine, looking at me and nodding very slightly.

The doctor said bronchial spasms, caused by cold and rain. I sat on the left, he sat on the right, taking turns telling stories to wipe the sweat off the child. She stood looking at the medicine board, scanning the HMO QR for him. No one mentioned BPO, Order, or prohibitions. Just a child and three adults trying to do the right thing.

Handwritten emergency clause

Early morning, my child slept soundly. I tore off a piece of paper from the file cover, handwritten:

In case of storm/flood/earthquake: the nearest person picks up the child with temporary authorization, notify email + barangay within 30 minutes.

In case of medical emergency: both have the right to call each other directly; she is made a backup if i/dad get stuck.

Return child: return to the exact handover point as soon as it is safe, with medical report.

I put down the pen. He reads, nods. She adds another line, in small print: “Do not speak ill of the other in front of the child — even if you are afraid.” Three signatures. Not notarized, but more weight than a stamp: the weight of this rainy night.

Money on time and reminders in place

The next 5th, 8:30 AM “ding” again. I sent a scan of the medication receipt, no extra words. He replied “Received”. At the end of the email, he added a line:
— “Thanks for coming to the ER.”

I replied:
— “Thanks for calling. Calling early makes things easier.” An untold story

A few weeks later, I woke my daughter up early for Field Day. She opened the closet and pulled out the children’s raincoat she had brought that stormy night:
— “Mommy, I want to give it to Mia. She doesn’t have a raincoat.”
I paused. The best kid in my family was a translator. I wrapped the raincoat in a bag and labeled it “To Mia — From a friend.”

The crack in the calendar — and the price tag called

One afternoon, his company cut back. The delivery was delayed by a day. I received an email from HR explaining, with a schedule to make up for it. At the beginning of the month, which was already thin, I still remembered the lesson 0:07 — heart beating fast. Then 08:30 the next day, “ding” neatly. I didn’t write anything. Being silent at the right time is also a form of news.

8) Family Day — one extra seat, two full hearts

Family Day at school. The organizers allowed each student two main guests and one extra guest. My child looked at me, then at him. I asked the teacher if I could register an extra seat for her. She nodded. I emailed both of them: “Extra seat in the back row. Please keep your distance if you don’t take the initiative.”

That day, my child danced in the middle of the yard, turned around and waved to three people. No one fought for the seat. No one fought for the applause. My child got enough — that was enough.

Hospital hallway — again

The next time I went for a check-up, the doctor praised me for no longer wheezing. I stood in front of the payment counter, suddenly hearing a small argument in the corner of the hallway: him and her — about the house debt and the previous hospital bill. I walked past, not interrupting. But I left a white envelope for the hospital’s children’s fund, marked: “From adults learning to be parents.” The receptionist smiled. A bereaved adult can still give a little — not to each other, but to a wider circle.

The storm receded and the shadow on the doorstep

The storm season receded. I hung a new calendar on the wall: piano Wednesday, swimming Friday, baking Sunday. Proper emails, text messages only about illness/fever. No more 0:07. No more knife-like words.

Late at night, the child folded blue paper cranes:
— “Mom, let me fold three of them: one for you, one for dad, one for…” The child hesitated.
— “For you.” I continued. The child nodded, as light as a breath.

The three cranes lay side by side on the doorstep. The night wind passed by, not knocking any of them over.
The Letter I’ll Give You When You’re Eighteen

I turned on my computer, typed slowly, and titled it “To My Daughter — Open When You’re 18”:

“Dear, there are adults who learn a long time to love without hurting. In the past, there were messages at 0:07 that made my hands tremble. Now, there are notifications at 08:30 that make me feel at ease. But don’t judge love by the hour; judge it by the person when you need them.

I used to think suing was the only way to protect. Later, I understood that protection is also writing emergency clauses by hand, going to the ER at 2 a.m., giving up a chair, and keeping quiet in the right place.

If one day you love and then get hurt, set boundaries, but also keep your humanity — because sometimes, behind the cold wall, there is a broken heart.

P.S. Three crane leaves on the windowsill — if one falls, remember to pick up all three.”

I printed it out, sealed it, and kept it on a high shelf, next to the green ring binder.

End — quiet and quiet

No fireworks. No TV coverage of a model “co-parenting” family. Just a child sleeping soundly, a medical message in the mailbox, a payment arriving on time, a raincoat passing from hand to hand, an urgent clause written in slanted letters pasted on the back of the refrigerator.

And there are three adults walking on three different paths, learning to meet in the middle: between law and humanity, between boundaries and sympathy, between the storm and the bright door.

I turn off the light. The wind from last night’s Commonwealth is still there, but gentle. I press my hand to my chest — slow enough to remember, fast enough to continue. Somewhere, he is learning to be on time, she is learning to text without using a knife, and I — continue to learn to keep boundaries without losing humanity. And tomorrow morning, at 08:30, the little “ting” will ring — quiet and quiet.