One morning I pretended I needed to go early to the market. I shut the gate loudly, then circled back and slipped inside. When I heard Mira moving in the kitchen, I hurried down the hall and opened their bedroom door.
A metallic tang seized the air. My heart lurched. I stepped toward the bed and lifted the sheet.
My knees nearly gave way. The mattress—white when new—was blotched and soaked with blood. Not the bright, familiar stain of a woman’s cycle; this was darker, heavier, like sorrow itself had seeped into the cotton.
Cold fingers seemed to close around my throat. I yanked open a drawer. Inside were rolls of bandages, a bottle of antiseptic, and an undershirt neatly folded… marred with dried brown-red. Evidence arranged with the care of a secret ritual.
Mira’s truth
I ran to the kitchen, seized Mira gently but firmly by the wrist, and led her back to the room.
“Explain this,” I said, my voice shaking. “What’s happening? Why all this blood? Why are you hiding it from me?”
For a heartbeat she said nothing. Her hands trembled; her lips quivered. Tears brimmed, and she seemed to collapse inward, as if holding up a heavy roof alone. Then she fell against me and sobbed into my shoulder.
“Nanay—Paulo has advanced-stage leukemia,” she whispered. “The doctors said he might have only a few months. We rushed the wedding because I couldn’t leave him. I wanted to be with him… however short the time.”
Everything inside me cracked. My son—my playful boy who used to run fishbones to the cat and joke with the vendors—had carried this monster alone. He’d hidden the truth to protect me, the way he used to hide his scraped knees when he was small because he knew I worried too much.
A mother’s decision
I did not sleep that night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft wash of the night wind and the far-off hum of tricycles. I imagined the pain Paulo must have been swallowing, the quiet battle fought in the shadows of our home. I pictured Mira tenderly changing those sheets, washing away fear with soap and sunlight, guarding his dignity one careful fold at a time.
At dawn I rose, tied my hair back, and went straight to the market. I bought new sheets—plain, sturdy cotton that would be gentle on his skin—and brought home bleach and extra basins. I helped Mira wash the old ones, our hands reddening in the soapy water, our mouths speaking little. From then on, I woke early every day to be there—for her, for him, for both of them.
One morning, as we stretched a clean sheet across the mattress, the two of us moving in unspoken rhythm, I pulled her into my arms.
“Thank you, Mira,” I said. “For loving my son. For staying. For choosing him, even knowing you would lose him.”
After all…