Daughter-in-Law D.i.e.d During Childbirth — Eight Men Couldn’t Lift the Coffin, and When the Mother-in-Law Demanded to Open It…/th

Daughter-in-Law D.i.e.d During Childbirth — Eight Men Couldn’t Lift the Coffin, and When the Mother-in-Law Demanded to Open It…

The haunting sound of funeral drums echoed down the narrow alleyways of a small barangay in Cavite, blending with the soft patter of rain hitting corrugated tin roofs. In the middle of a humble courtyard, a golden-painted coffin rested on two bamboo benches. Mourners packed the yard, heads bowed in grief for Maya—the gentle, devoted daughter-in-law who had died during childbirth.

Maya was only 25. Since marrying into the Dela Cruz family, she had treated her in-laws with unwavering respect and love. Her mother-in-law, Aling Luz, used to proudly say, “Mapalad ang pamilyang may manugang na gaya ni Maya.” (A family is truly blessed with a daughter-in-law like Maya.)

But just a little over a year into the marriage, tragedy struck.

That fateful night, Maya was crying out in pain, holding her swollen belly, sweat and tears running down her face. By the time she was rushed to the hospital, she was too weak to fight. The baby didn’t survive. And Maya… never opened her eyes again.

The family was shattered. Aling Luz collapsed in grief, screaming Maya’s name. Her husband, Mang Ernesto, sat frozen, staring blankly at the framed picture of Maya that now sat atop the closed coffin. In the photo, Maya was smiling brightly, her eyes full of life.

When it was time to move the coffin, eight strong barangay tanods and neighbors came forward to carry it toward the funeral car.

But something was wrong.

Despite their combined strength, the coffin wouldn’t move. They pushed. They lifted. They strained—but it stayed rooted to the spot, as if anchored by some unseen force.

An elderly woman among the crowd murmured:

“Hindi pa siya handang umalis… may mabigat pa sa puso niya.” (She’s not ready to leave… there’s still something weighing on her heart.)

The parish priest stepped closer and said softly:

“Buksan natin ang kabaong. May kailangan pa siyang sabihin.”

(Let us open the coffin. She still has something left to say.)

With trembling hands, the family unlocked it. As the lid slowly creaked open, gasps escaped from the mourners.

Maya’s face, though peaceful, was streaked with dried tears.

Her eyes were softly closed, but her lashes were wet—proof of sorrow that followed her even in death.

Aling Luz collapsed beside the coffin, clutching Maya’s cold hand.

“Maya… anak… bakit ka umiiyak? Kung may hindi mo nasabi, sabihin mo na ngayon… Patawarin mo kami, anak…”
(Maya… my child… why are you crying? If there’s something you couldn’t say, say it now… Forgive us, dear…)

Silence fell. The only sound was the steady tapping of rain on the awnings.

Then, a choked sob.

All eyes turned toward Anton—Maya’s husband.

He had dropped to his knees, face buried in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

Luz’s voice trembled:

“Anton… anak… anong nangyayari? Narinig mo ba siya?”

Anton raised his tear-soaked face. His lips quivered as he spoke:

“Ako ang dahilan… ako ang dahilan kung bakit siya nasaktan…”

The mourners froze.

Even the rain seemed to pause.

He continued, voice cracking:

“Noong gabing ‘yon… nalaman niya ang tungkol sa babae. Hindi siya nagalit. Hindi siya sumigaw. Tahimik lang siyang umiyak… Hawak ang tiyan niya buong gabi. Sabi ko… tatapusin ko na. Pinangako ko. Pero nasaktan na siya. Napagod na siya. Bumagsak siya bigla… Dinala ko siya sa ospital… pero huli na…”

“Maya… patawarin mo ako… patawarin mo…”

People around him wept. Some covered their mouths. Others turned away, unable to bear the sight of such grief.

Aling Luz whispered through her sobs:

“Anak… bakit mo tiniis lahat ‘to? Patawarin mo kami, Maya… sa pagkukulang namin sa ‘yo…”

Anton leaned over the coffin, gripping the wooden edge, voice shaking with guilt:

“Maya… galit ka man, sigaw mo man ako sa impyerno, tatanggapin ko. Pero… patawarin mo lang ako. Hayaan mong madala kita sa huling hantungan…”

Suddenly, the coffin creaked softly. A subtle shift. A barely noticeable tremor.

The priest bowed his head and murmured:

“Pinatawad ka na niya.” (She has let go.)

The eight pallbearers stepped forward again. And this time, the coffin lifted effortlessly, light as if the weight of sorrow had finally lifted with it.

The drums began to play once more, the mournful beat echoing across the soaked streets as the procession began.

Anton remained kneeling on the cold cement, his tears mixing with the rain.

And in every year that followed, in every silent moment and sleepless night, the image of Maya—her tear-streaked face—would return.

Whispering that sometimes,
“Sorry” can never undo what the heart has already buried