Every day, the young bride changes the sheets. Until the day her mother-in-law walks into the room and sees BLOOD on the bed… revealing a SECRET that breaks a mother’s heart.
Paulo had only been married to Mira for a week. Their wedding in Batangas was basic. There was no fancy hotel or crystal chandeliers. The wedding featured only our church, plastic seats set up under a tarp, and pots of pancit and kaldereta simmering on long tables. But it was perfect: laughing that shook the windows, tears that tasted like optimism, and pledges made with steady voices and bright eyes.
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I told my market friends, “We’re lucky to have such a graceful daughter-in-law.” My chest swelled with pride.
But only a few days after the wedding, I started to feel awful about something.
The sheets’ secret
Every morning, without fail, Mira took the sheets, blankets, and pillowcases off the bed and washed them outside in the sun. She would change them twice in one day, as if the bed were an altar that needed to be renewed all the time.
Finally, one afternoon I inquired, “Why do you change the sheets every day, hija?”
That smile was warm and thoughtful. “Nanay, I’m allergic to dust.” When everything is new, I sleep better.
It made sense, yet the explanation made me feel strange in my chest. The linens were all new and carefully chosen for the wedding. The cotton smelled slightly of lavender and was as crisp as a page. No one in our family had any allergies. She kept washing and washing the white fabric, which became a flag she hoisted against an unseen foe.
Suspicion
The terrible discovery
I acted as if I had to go to the market early one morning. I slammed the gate shut and then went around and sneaked inside. I rushed down the hall and opened their bedroom door when I heard Mira moving around in the kitchen.
The air was full of a metallic smell. My heart skipped a beat. I walked up to the bed and pulled back the sheet.
My knees almost gave out. The mattress, which was white when it was new, was stained and soaked with blood. This stain wasn’t the bright, recognizable one that comes with a woman’s cycle; it was darker and heavier, like sadness had seeped into the cotton.
It felt like cold fingers were closing around my throat. I pulled a drawer open. There were rolls of bandages, a bottle of antiseptic, and an undershirt that had been neatly folded but was now stained with dried brown-red. The evidence was assembled with the meticulous care of a secret ritual.
The truth about Mira
I hurried to the kitchen, took Mira by the wrist gently but forcefully, and brought her back to the room.
I asked, “Explain this,” and my voice shook. “What’s going on? Why is there so much blood? Why are you keeping it from me?
For a second, she didn’t say anything. Her lips and hands shook. She seemed like she was going to collapse inward, as if she were holding up a massive ceiling by herself. She then slumped into me and cried on my shoulder.
“Nanay—Paulo has leukemia that is in the later stages,” she said softly. “The doctors said he might only have a few months left.” We rushed the wedding because I would rather not leave him. I wanted to be with him, no matter how brief the time.
Everything inside me broke. My son, the fun-loving boy who used to run fish bones to the cat and make jokes with the sellers, had transported this monster by himself. He withheld the facts from me to keep me safe, just like he used to hide his skinned knees when he was little because he knew I worried too much.
A mother’s choice
That night, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep because I was staring at the ceiling and listening to the smooth wash of the night breeze and the distant hum of tricycles. I thought of the anguish Paulo must have been going through and the secret fight that was going on in the shadows of our home. I imagined Mira gently changing those sheets, washing away dread with soap and sunlight, and protecting his dignity one meticulous fold at a time.
I got up at daybreak, tied my hair up, and walked straight to the market. I got fresh sheets made of plain, strong cotton that wouldn’t hurt his skin. I also brought home bleach and extra basins. I helped Mira wash the old ones. Our hands turned red in the soapy water, and we didn’t say much. From then on, I got up early every day to be there for her, for him, and for both of them.
As we draped a clean sheet over the mattress one morning, I grabbed her into my arms without saying a word.
I said, “Thanks, Mira.” “Because you love my son. For staying. For selecting him, even though you knew you would lose him.
In the end…
Paulo left three months later, in the quiet before dawn. There was no thunder or drama, just a quiet breath and a letting go. Mira was next to him, her fingers intertwined with his. She kept saying “I love you” over and over, as if those words might show him the way. His face relaxed, and a small smile appeared on his lips, as if he had finally reached a shore where agony could not follow.
Mira didn’t pack luggage after the burial. She didn’t go back to her parents’ house. She didn’t go for a new life in a faraway place. She stayed with me. We started working together at our modest food booth, standing side by side behind the counter. She learned which regulars liked extra chili, which uncles liked their rice a touch crusty from the pot, and which kids would smile if you added a little more lumpia. We sat on the step in the evenings and let the day breathe out around us.
It has been two years since then. People still inquire out of curiosity and kindness, “Why is Mira still living with you?” I just smile. Some bonds are written down, while others are written in blood, sweat, restless nights, and folded sheets.
I say, “She wasn’t just my son’s wife.” “She was also my daughter. “This will always be her home.”
