My mother-in-law forced me to choose between quitting my job or leaving my husband, I chose to leave my husband and then did something that made my whole family regret it.

My name is Luna, 32 years old, a director of a technology company in BGC, Taguig. My job is stressful but the income is high, enough for me to take care of my parents in Iloilo and my husband and children. Marco and I have been married for 6 years, and have a 4-year-old daughter named Ava. To be honest, if it weren’t for love that year, I probably wouldn’t have foolishly entered this family.

From the beginning, Mama Carmen – my mother-in-law – did not like me. She thought that career-oriented women “only know money”. In her eyes, the ideal daughter-in-law is someone who quits her job, stays home to cook, serve her husband, and take care of the children. But I am different: I believe that women must be independent, standing on their own two feet.

Over the past few years, my work has developed well. I also helped my husband’s family: I paid for Tatay Rogelio’s hospital bills when he was sick, I paid Jessa’s college tuition, and I bought Marco a new car so he could get to work. Frankly, without me, the family’s sari-sari store in Caloocan would barely make ends meet.

And yet, one day Mama Carmen called me down to the living room, her voice firm:

– You have to choose. One is to quit your job and come home to take care of your husband and children so that I can rest assured. Two is to leave Marco. I don’t accept a daughter-in-law who goes out early and comes home late all day, looking down on her family.

I was stunned. I looked at Marco, hoping he would speak up for his wife. But he just bowed his head and remained silent. That attitude was more painful than the accusation.

That night, I asked my husband one last time:

– What do you want from me?

He sighed:

– Or I should quit my job for a while… to make Mom happy.

I burst out laughing, tears streaming down my face. For the past six years, I have shouldered the burden, provided for, and kept this house. When I needed his protection, he chose to remain silent.

The next morning, I filed for separation and initiated the annulment proceedings, placing the documents right on the dining table. The whole family was stunned. Mama Carmen yelled loudly, Marco was speechless. I just calmly said:

– Mom told me to choose. I chose.

But that was not all. I still had a final “plan”… Over the years, all of my husband’s family expenses – from food, electricity and water bills, capital to import goods for the sari-sari store, to Jessa’s tuition – were all withdrawn from the sub-card I opened. I gave them the right to use the card without control, because I thought that being a daughter-in-law should be generous.

After completing the procedures, I went to the bank in Makati and locked all the sub-cards. The call to report that the cards were locked came just as Jessa was about to pay her tuition, Mama Carmen was ordering medicine for Tatay Rogelio, and Marco had just signed a form to import more goods for the store.

That afternoon, my phone rang continuously. Mama Carmen yelled:
– Stop being so evil! Why did you lock the card? How is this family going to live?

I said coldly:
– From now on, our family should learn to take care of ourselves. For years, I have been raising you, but in return, I have only received contempt. It’s over, don’t expect to depend on you for another penny.

I hung up.

In the following days, the news spread throughout the family. The Sari-sari store did not have enough capital to import goods; Jessa had to stop studying because she could not pay her tuition; Mama Carmen sat and cried; Marco – who used to be proud of having a “good wife” – was now helpless, not knowing how to make ends meet.

Many people blamed me for being heartless. But they did not understand how much I had endured over the years. I had devoted all my heart to that family, but in return, they only imposed and despised me. If I continued to give in, they would take advantage of me, considering my support as an obligation.

Now, I live with Ava in a small apartment in Bonifacio Global City, starting a new life. No more nagging words from Mama Carmen, no more weak eyes from Marco. I only regret one thing: I should have made up my mind sooner.

And they – the ones who once thought they could force me to quit my job to stay home and “serve” – now realize that the person they despised was the pillar that had supported the whole family for so many years. When the cash flow was cut off, everything collapsed. And that was my final answer: You want to despise me? Live on your own. Don’t expect to depend on me anymore.

When the “cash flow” stops

BGC morning is sunny. I make milk for Ava, she is busy stacking Lego blocks on the glass window overlooking Bonifacio High Street. The phone vibrates: an email from legal saying that the annulment has been received. I take a deep breath. Since the day I put the file on my husband’s dining table, everything has been spinning like a storm — but this time I stand firm.

At noon, Ditas (HR manager) stopped at my door:
— You okay, boss?
— I’m fine. Just… learning to be quiet in the face of noise.

Ditas nodded, placing a CSR proposal in my hand: “Bayanihan Lab for Women — a small fund to help female sari-sari shop owners go digital, learn financial management, open online sales channels.” I looked at the name and felt my heart warm. Perhaps this was the kindest answer to a life that had slandered women as only interested in money.

That afternoon, a strange number called. Jessa. Her voice trembled:
— Ate Luna, I’m… sorry. I didn’t know anything about Mom. The school sent a notice today to close the tuition fee. I… must have stopped.

I was silent for a few seconds. In my mind was the image of Mama Carmen screaming and the nineteen-year-old girl bewildered at the intersection.

— Meet me at the jeepney stop near 5th Avenue tomorrow, 10 o’clock. Bring your transcript.

The wind outside Taguig Street blew the scent of coffee from the corner shop. Jessa stood shyly, hugging her cloth bag tightly. When I placed the bottle of water in front of her, her eyes were red.

— Ate, I’m not asking for money. I just… want to ask if there’s any place to work in the evening. I’ll pay the tuition slowly.

— You didn’t send me any money. But you have a new internal scholarship — “Bayanihan Lab”. Conditions: the recipient must submit an application, write a 1,000-word essay about “the woman I want to become,” and agree to take six financial skills classes. Are you in?

Jessa looked up, her eyes shining:
— I’m in! But… my mom will be angry with me if I accept your scholarship.

— The scholarship is from the company, not from “my sister-in-law.” And one last condition: no one is allowed to use the scholarship as an excuse to make me drop out of school. If so, call me directly.

Jessa nodded like a child who had just caught a lifebuoy. I knew that not everyone in that family was worth turning my back on.

At night, the phone rang again. Mama Carmen called, then Marco, then Tatay Rogelio. I left the phone on vibrate. On the thirteenth call, I picked up.

— You’re so mean, Luna! The key card, the goods can’t be imported, Jessa is about to be expelled—
— Ma, I made it clear: from now on, whoever uses money has to earn it themselves. I don’t forbid anyone from studying, I don’t forbid anyone from doing business. I just forbid seeing myself as an obligation.
— You’re ungrateful!
— Ungrateful is forcing women to quit their jobs to “save the family’s face”. I choose to work well. And I choose to be a good mother.

I hung up. Beside me, Ava hugged my neck:
— Mama, we’re okay?
— We’re perfect, baby.

A week later, Barangay Hall in Caloocan held a “family reconciliation” session. I went alone. Marco sat on the left seat, his eyes sunken. Mama Carmen stood with her arms crossed, the neighbors gossiping. Kap (the ward chief) said sternly:
— Families need to talk civilly. Economic violence is also violence.

I calmly placed a stack of documents on the table: the sub-card statement, Tatay Rogelio’s hospital bill, the car purchase contract in my name, Jessa’s tuition receipt. Kap glanced at it and let out a long whistle.

— Marco, son, you’ve been silent for too many years.
Marco swallowed:
— I… I let Luna do all the heavy lifting.

Mama Carmen growled:
— It’s all a show. She wants to humiliate our family.

I looked straight at her:
— No. I want to cut off the habit of “ready-made” legalized by the word “daughter-in-law”. If you really love your son, you should teach him to earn money, not teach me to quit my job.

The meeting room fell silent. Kap concluded:
— We separate our finances. Ava’s visitation schedule. Any insults to honor — stop now.

I nodded. Marco raised his head slightly, his eyes seemed to want to say something but stopped.

News of the scholarship spread faster than I expected. In just two weeks, Bayanihan Lab received nearly 200 applications from barangays around Caloocan and Valenzuela. I selected 30 for the first batch — all women running sari-sari shops, half of them single mothers. Jessa was at the top.

The opening ceremony took place in a small public school auditorium, the walls still stained with lime. I stood on the stage, looking down at the faces that were both eager and hesitant. As I introduced the lecturer on “Cash Flow Management,” the back door opened slightly. Mama Carmen walked in. She sat in the back row, her face stern. I pretended not to see her.

During the discussion, a middle-aged woman told the story of being forced by her husband’s family to quit her job after giving birth, of being depressed and almost doing something stupid. The room fell silent. At the back of the room, Mama Carmen bowed her head, her hand twisting the edge of her handkerchief. When the class ended, she stood up and walked straight to me.

— Luna… She called softly, for the first time without “roaring”.

— Yes, Ma?
She pursed her lips, her voice choked:

— I was wrong. I… thought keeping my son meant keeping my family. Who would have thought, I lost everything. You… don’t block Jessa’s path. If she learns, her life will be less miserable.

I looked deeply into her eyes. Regret is one thing; change is another.

— I won’t block anyone’s path. But Ma must promise one thing: from now on, no one will use their mouths to exploit or humiliate the women in the house anymore. Can Ma do it?

She swallowed.
— I… I will try.

I nodded, handing her the class schedule. Mama Carmen silently accepted, turned away, her small shadow suddenly looking fragile under the old fluorescent light.

That night, Marco waited for me in the lobby of the building at BGC. The yellow light poured on his gaunt face.

— I’m sorry. I’m a coward. I want to… start over.
I smiled tiredly:
— Who do you want to start over with — me or the cash flow?
— With me… and Ava. I’ll work part-time. I’ve applied for a night delivery job in Quezon City.
— That’s good. I won’t close the door to visit my child. But my husband and I — I won’t go back. I need a companion, not a shadow hiding behind my mother’s voice.

Marco bowed his head. For the first time, he didn’t argue.

Two months later, Bayanihan Lab’s first batch graduated. Jessa stood on stage receiving her certificate, her eyes sparkling. She whispered as they took a photo together:
— Ate, I won a scholarship for next semester. I promise to be a woman who can stand on her own two feet.
— Good. And remember: financial freedom starts with three words — no begging.

That same day, Kap sent a photo: the sign of her husband’s sari-sari store had a small line added: “Managed by Jessa”. Inside, Mama Carmen was learning how to use a QR scanner, Tatay Rogelio was busy arranging shelves. I stared at the photo for a long time. Not because I wanted to go back, but because I realized: eventually, they had to learn to live on their own.

At night, Ava and I sat by the glass door, watching the lights of Taguig. She leaned her head on my shoulder:
— Mama, when I grow up, I want to be like you.

I kissed her forehead:
— Be yourself — a girl who won’t let anyone define her worth.

I opened my laptop, signed off on the budget for Bayanihan Lab – Batch 2 to expand to Malabon and Tondo. In the corner of the screen, a new message appeared: “Formal apology” from Mama Carmen, with a 3-page financial plan for the store attached. I smiled — not a triumphant smile, but a smile of seeing a toxic circle closing.

Not every marriage can be saved. But every woman can save herself. And sometimes, the act of making others regret is not revenge, but living so well that they are forced to look at themselves.

Outside, BGC is as bright as day. In my chest, for the first time in many years, it is also as bright