For four long years, my husband sent every centavo he earned to his mother. He trusted her completely.
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to trust her the way he did.
But while my husband worked under the harsh lights of Tokyo’s factories, I was here in the Philippines, raising our daughter on hope alone. Every time I needed something — milk, medicine, or school supplies — I had to ask my mother-in-law first.
“Why are you always asking for money?” she’d scold. “I’m the one managing your husband’s earnings. If it goes through your hands, it’ll disappear.”
I swallowed my pride every time. I thought, It’s fine. It’s just a few more years. When my husband comes home, everything will finally be okay.
But I was wrong.
