My son Paulo had only been married to Mira for a week. Their wedding in Batangas had been simple, modest, but filled with joy, tears, and heartfelt vows. I still remember the way Paulo looked at Mira as he held her hands before the altar, as if he had finally found a reason to live fully, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Mira seemed like the perfect daughter-in-law. Gentle, respectful, always smiling, bowing politely to each aunt, uncle, and elder. Relatives and neighbors alike whispered in admiration:
You are truly blessed to have such a kind, well-mannered daughter-in-law.

And I was proud. At the market, whenever anyone asked, I would beam with pride: My daughter in law is such a good girl. God must truly love my family to give me a blessing like her.

But only days after the wedding, I began to notice something strange…

The Mystery of the Sheets

Every morning, without fail, as I swept the yard or boiled water, Mira would quietly take out the bedclothes and wash them, hanging them under the sun. Sometimes, she even changed them twice a day.

Curious, I asked her once:
Why do you keep changing the sheets every day? Everything is still brand new…

She smiled gently, her eyes glistening for a second before she quickly hid it.

I have a dust allergy, Nanay. I sleep better when everything is clean.

I said nothing more, but doubt began to grow inside me. No one in our family had allergies, and all the bedding was brand new, fragrant, and carefully chosen for the wedding. Why would she wash them with such obsession?

One morning, when Mira went down to the kitchen to prepare porridge, I pretended to leave for the village market. But instead of stepping outside, I quietly climbed the stairs to their room.

The Discovery That Shattered Me

The moment I opened the door, a heavy metallic odor hit me so sharply it felt like my chest tightened. It wasn’t the scent of detergent, nor the smell of damp fabric. Nothis was unmistakably the smell of blood.

My hands shook as I stepped closer to the bed. Slowly, I lifted the sheet.

And my knees nearly gave way.

The white mattress was blotched with stainsdark, dried, layered over and over. These were not menstrual stains. I was a woman; I knew. This blood was thicker, darker, heavier.

My pulse hammered in my ears as I pulled open the drawers.

Inside lay rolls of bandages, a half-used bottle of antiseptic, andfolded neatly as though Mira had tried to hide it from the worlda man’s undershirt stiff with blood.

The room spun. I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, my ears ringing, my head hollow.

I stumbled downstairs, grabbed Mira by the wrist, and dragged her back into the room. My voice shook between rage and desperation: Tell me what this is! Whose blood is this? Why are you hiding all this?!

Mira trembled, lips pressed tightly, tears brimming but unspoken. Then, suddenly, she broke, collapsing into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

Nanay… Paulo… he has terminal leukemia. The doctors said he only has a few months left. We rushed the wedding because I didn’t want to leave him. I just wanted to be with him… for however long I had left.

The world collapsed around me.

My sonthe boy I had raised with every drop of my youthwas dying. And he had chosen silence, carrying the burden in secret, just to protect my fragile heart.

A Mother’s Strength

That night, I could not sleep. The tick-tock of the clock sounded like a hammer against my chest. I imagined all the nights Paulo must have twisted in pain, bleeding quietly into the sheets, while Mira washed them with bleeding hands of her own, then smiled as though nothing was wrong when she saw me in the morning.

The next day, I went to the market and bought new sheets. Together, Mira and I washed the old ones, hung them to dry, folded them carefully. I rose early each day, not to spy, not to questionbut to share the weight Mira had silently carried.

One morning, as we changed the sheets together, I pulled her into a tight embrace.

Thank you, Mira… for loving my son. For staying. For choosing him, even though you knew the cruel end that awaited.

Her tears soaked my shoulder, but in her eyes there burned a strength I had never seen before.

The Last Months

Three months later, on a quiet dawn, Paulo slipped away in his sleep. No cries, no struggle. Only Mira, sitting beside him, clutching his hand, whispering three words again and again:
I love you.

When they carried Paulo away, I saw his face. And I swearthere was a smile on his lips. As if at last, he had found peace.

The house grew hollow, echoing with silence. But Mira did not leave.

She did not return to her parents. She did not remarry. Instead, she stayedby my side. She helped me run our little food stall at the market, cooked meals, washed clothes, told me stories at night. She became not just a daughter-in-law, but truly, a daughter.

Two years have passed.

People often ask me: Why does Mira still live with you? She’s young… shouldn’t she start over?

I simply smile and answer: Because she wasn’t just my son’s wife. She also became my daughter. And this will always be her home.

The End

Love does not die when a person leaves. It transforms, flowing into those who remain. Paulo left Mira with meas his final gift. And I know, until my last breath, I will treasure that gift as dearly as I treasured my own son.