Just a week into Paolo and Mira’s modest Batangas wedding—full of laughter, tears, and heartfelt vows—I thought Mira was the ideal daughter-in-law: kind, respectful, and beloved by everyone.
But soon I noticed she changed the sheets daily. When I asked, she smiled and said, “I’m allergic to dust.” I doubted her—everything was new and pristine, and no one in the family had allergies.
One morning, I followed her into her room and found a strong metallic scent. Lifting the sheet, I discovered thick, dark blood stains—not menstrual—along with hidden bandages and a bloodied undershirt.
Shocked, I confronted her. Tears pouring, she collapsed in my arms and revealed the truth: Paolo had late-stage leukemia with only months to live. They’d married hastily so she could stay by him.
That night, I lay awake, thinking of his silent suffering and her quiet devotion. The next day, I bought fresh sheets and together we washed the stained ones. Every morning since, I’m there with her—supporting them both.
Three months later, Paolo passed away peacefully in his sleep, Mira at his side. She stayed with me, managing our food stall, treating me like her mother. Two years on, when people ask why she remains, I simply say:
“She wasn’t just my son’s wife—she became my daughter. This will always be her home.”