Nanay Rosa – my mother-in-law – came from Pangasinan to Quezon City to visit my husband and I. I took care of the meals and washed the pile of clothes she brought from the province. On the day she returned, I slipped her ₱700 for the bus fare from Cubao Araneta City Bus Port to Dagupan. Just then, my husband Marco ran out of the house, his face red:

— What kind of money is this? This is my Nanay, our house is not a hotel where you can give me money and then send me off like that!

After saying that, he slapped me right in the face, right in front of Nanay Rosa who was still confused and had not yet reacted. I stood there, my cheeks burning, my ears ringing.

Without saying another word, I quietly went into the room, took out a large envelope with the Transfer Certificate of Title of the townhouse in my name, and ran out to give it to her.

— I don’t mind spending ₱700 for the bus fare. I regret that… I was wrong to put my trust and all my assets in a man like him. Take it and see, then please teach your son. If you still hold back today, tomorrow he will not only beat you, but also teach his son to swing his arms at his wife like that.

Nanay Rosa was stunned. She opened the envelope, saw the TCT with my name on it. She trembled and knelt down in the middle of the cement yard, bursting into tears:

— I’m sorry! All my life I taught him to take care of the family, but he misunderstood the meaning of the word “patriarch”. My son, don’t leave him now. Let me teach that machismo son.

Marco stood there, stunned. As for me… I just took off my wedding ring, put it on the table, went into my room to pack, and went back to my mother’s house in Marikina.

A few days later, Nanay Rosa called me to the Barangay Hall. She gave me the Deed of Donation papers transferring the small piece of land in Urdaneta to me, as an apology.

As for Marco, for the first time after 7 years of marriage, he went to his parents’ house and knelt down to apologize to my parents, then said something that made me choke up:

— You gave Nanay ₱700, and I almost lost my wife, and even ₱3,000,000 couldn’t buy her back.

I looked down at my hands – where the ring I had just taken off still had a thin mark. Outside, the sound of a jeepney was going up the small slope in the barangay. I understood: fare was not the issue; respect was the price to pay. And from that day on, if you wanted to keep your family, you had to first give up the “right” to wave your hand. Only when you know how to bow your head to right and wrong, will you be qualified to say the two words “family”

Three days later, Nanay Rosa called me to the Barangay Hall. She had prepared the Deed of Donation for the land in Urdaneta—as an apology. I took the documents, put them in my pocket, and looked straight at her:

— I don’t need land to “win” an argument. I need a secure marriage.

Kap (the ward chief) invited us into the conciliation room. Marco came in, his T-shirt wrinkled, his feet in tsinelas, his face down. I spoke slowly, word by word:

— That day, it wasn’t the ₱700 that hurt me. It was the slap and the insult. If we want to keep our family, we have to have rules from today.

Kap nodded, reading each item in the kasunduan (agreement) drafted by the secretary:

No violence in any form (physical, verbal, humiliation in front of others).

No financial control; any amount over ₱3,000 must be discussed in advance.

90-day safe distance: I am in Marikina; Marco does not come suddenly, only contacts when necessary for paperwork/household matters.

Marco attends 12 “Men Against Violence” sessions at QC Social Services + weekly anger management counseling (with confirmation).

If violated, the temporary Barangay Protection Order (BPO) will be activated, the file will be transferred to the Police Station.

Kap pushed the paper over. Marco held the pen, his hand shaking. He looked up, looking into my eyes for the first time:

— Payag (I agree).

He signed, then put the house key on the table himself, pushing it towards Kap.

Nanay Rosa let out a long breath. She turned to her son:

— From today on, Nanay follows you every night. Curfew 9 o’clock, breathing exercise 10 minutes before bed. Start over, like a guilty child.

I looked at Marco, saying nothing. For the first time after the slap, I saw in his eyes the fear of loss—not of power, but of family.

Weeks 1–4. Marco attended class regularly. The group leader, Tatay Ben, had a hoarse voice and spoke little and did much. He taught them how to name their anger (“Hot neck,” “Hurt,” “Fear of losing face”), how to count 5-4-3-2-1 to get back to the present. Every week Marco took a photo of his attendance slip and sent it to Kap and Nanay.

I was in Marikina, cleaning the corner of the yard, planting some pots of sampaguita. At night, I still jumped when I heard the jeepney screech to a halt outside the alley. The slap was no longer on my cheek, but it was still in the nerve that ran down the back of my neck. Nanay called every night:

— He finished “Apologizing Properly.” Next week, “No Blame.”

I just said, “Yeah.”

Week 5. Drama ensued. Tita Lulu – Nanay’s sister – shouted loudly:

— You took my sister’s Urdaneta land, and you still want rules from your husband? What kind of woman is this…

As soon as the phone call ended, Nanay immediately sent a voice message to her relatives:

— Wag mo siyang tadyakan sa salita (Don’t kick her with words). The land is Nanay’s own; whoever’s share it is, Nanay will keep it. As for the kasunduan, it’s to save our son. Be silent if you can’t help.

I burst into tears. Not because of the land—but because for the first time, Nanay stood on the “right” side without avoiding it.

Week 6–8. One afternoon, I happened to meet Marco at Mercato in BGC. He was carrying a tray of lomi for Nanay. The male waiter asked if I needed more calamansi, and Marco paused. Before, just that was enough to make me angry. This time, he closed his eyes, took five breaths, and spread his hands:

— Give us two calamansi, thank you.

A very ordinary sentence. But to me, it was a series of green lights, one after another.

That night, Marco sent a photo of his notebook in class:

“Patriarchy = responsibility, not power.”

“Respect is not paid in installments with gifts; it is paid in full by daily actions.”

“If you want to hug your wife, put down your pen and ask for permission in words.”

I read it over and over again. Below was the crooked line:
“Day 43 without blaming. Good job, Marco.” — Tatay Ben’s handwriting.

Day 60. Kap asked for a reunion. Marco brought a handwritten letter:

“I’m sorry for pushing you out of the house I promised to protect. I’m sorry for using ‘Nanay is Nanay’ to justify the slap. I’m giving Kap 3 commitments: (1) Not to touch you without your consent; (2) Not to touch your phone/bank account; (3) Not to touch your dignity with harsh words. If I violate, sign the BPO agreement.”

He added a password: “Nanay Fund – ₱1,500/month for transportation and medical expenses,” with Nanay and I together.

I looked at Kap. He nodded: “It’s good to be here. The decision is yours.”

I took a breath:

— Let’s try another 30 days, supervised visitation at Nanay Rosa’s house. I’ll come over every night at 7pm, and leave at 9pm. If there are no violations, I will move back on the 90th, but with 3 new locks:
(1) House lock: you do not enter without prior notice.
(2) Money lock: spend more than ₱3,000 and sign two signatures.
(3) Speech lock: when feeling tense, say the password “enough”, both of us are silent for 10 minutes.

Marco chuckled, eyes moist:

— Copy.

Day 90. I carried two boxes of stuff back to Quezon City. The townhouse was quiet, the ceiling fan was spinning silently. Nanay hung a small sign on the door:

“Bahay natin, hindi boxing ring.” (Our house, not a boxing ring.)

That night, we cooked tinola. Marco cut ginger awkwardly, his hands were so clumsy. I handed him a smaller knife, he smiled, counting “1… 2… 3…” like in breathing class.

After eating, he took out ₱700 in change from the desk drawer—not to pay, but a photo frame he had made himself, with ₱100, ₱50, ₱20, ₱10, ₱5, ₱1 notes pressed together with the words:

“The fare that day was not worth it; what was worth it was you. I have not forgotten.”

I stopped crying like before. I put the frame on the shelf, next to the Nanay Fund passbook. Outside the alley, the sound of jeepneys rumbled by. I put my hand on the third key—“Khoa lua”—and whispered:

—That’s enough. I’ll sleep early today.

Marco understood, kept quiet for the prescribed 10 minutes, then pulled the blanket up to his waist. He turned to me:

— Salamat… for giving me a way.

I looked at the ceiling, listening to the fan. The meaning of “head of the family” in this house had changed to “knowing how to bow to right and wrong”. The road is still long, but at least, two people go together