It had been only a week since my son, Daniel, married Marissa. From the very first day, she carried herself like the perfect daughter-in-law—gentle, modest, and always courteous to everyone in our home in Tagaytay City.

I was so impressed with her that I often bragged to my neighbors, saying,

“We couldn’t be luckier. Our daughter-in-law is respectful, humble, and knows her place.”

But only a few days after the wedding, I began to notice something strange.

The Daily Ritual

Each morning, without exception, Marissa would strip the bed completely—blankets, sheets, pillowcases, everything—and put them out under the sun. Some days, she even replaced them twice.

When I asked her why, she gave me a gentle smile and explained:

“I’m sensitive to dust, Mama. I can only sleep well when the linens are freshly washed.”

I nodded, but inside, I felt unsettled. No one in our family had ever had such a condition, and besides, the linens were brand new, bought specially for the wedding. They still carried the faint scent of lavender from the store. Something about her answer just didn’t sit right.

At first, I dismissed it as part of her newness in our home—perhaps she was simply trying too hard to impress us. But as the days passed, the pattern continued. Every single morning, she quietly gathered the sheets, careful not to let anyone help her, and quickly washed and hung them before breakfast.

My curiosity grew into unease.

The Market Excuse

One Thursday morning, I decided to test her. I told Marissa that I needed to go to the market in Lemery and might be gone for most of the morning. She smiled politely, nodding, and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Instead of leaving, I quietly climbed the stairs and slipped into their room.

The moment I opened the door, a sharp, metallic odor hit me. My chest tightened. I stepped closer to the bed, heart pounding. With trembling hands, I lifted the blanket on Daniel’s side.

The Shocking Discovery

Underneath, the sheet was stained red with blood. The spots weren’t small either—they had spread across the middle of the bed, deep into the mattress. The sight made my knees weaken, and I clutched the bedframe to keep from collapsing.

I whispered, almost to myself:

“Oh my God…”

The door creaked behind me. I turned and saw Marissa standing there, pale and frozen, holding a tray of breakfast she had intended to bring upstairs. For a moment, we simply stared at each other in silence.

Her lips trembled as she finally spoke.

“Mama… please… don’t tell Daniel.”

The Hidden Truth

I placed the tray down and gently led her to sit. My voice shook as I asked, “Why? What is happening? Why is there so much blood?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought… maybe after the wedding, things would get better.”

Her words spilled out in broken sentences. For years, Marissa had suffered from a severe gynecological condition—a rare bleeding disorder that caused uncontrollable hemorrhaging during intimacy and even while sleeping. Doctors had told her that the condition was manageable with treatment, but it would also make having children nearly impossible.

She never told Daniel. She was terrified that if he knew, he might leave her, or worse, resent her for not being able to give him a family.

“I love him so much, Mama. I wanted to be his wife. I thought I could hide it, at least for a while… so I change the sheets every day, before he notices.”

The Weight of Silence

I was torn. My heart ached for her—this young woman who carried such a burden alone. Yet I also thought of my son, who dreamed of having a big family, who often told me, “Mama, I can’t wait to have little ones running around the house.”

How could I keep this secret from him? But how could I betray her trust?

For days, I lived with the knowledge, each time watching Marissa quietly tending to the linens, smiling through her pain, hiding her truth from everyone—including the man she had just married.

The Breaking Point

One night, Daniel came to me with a troubled expression.

“Mama,” he said softly, “I think something’s wrong with Marissa. She’s always tired, and I keep noticing… she tries to push me away at night. She says she doesn’t feel well, but I don’t know what’s happening. Did she say anything to you?”

I looked at my son, torn between honesty and loyalty. My lips parted, but no words came out. I shook my head.

“Maybe she just needs more rest, anak. Give her time.”

He nodded reluctantly, though his eyes searched mine for an answer I couldn’t give.

The Inevitable Reveal

Weeks passed, and the secret grew heavier. Then one evening, Daniel came home earlier than usual. Marissa hadn’t yet changed the sheets.

I heard his footsteps rush upstairs, followed by the sound of a door opening. Then silence. And then—Daniel’s voice, loud, broken, trembling.

“Marissa! What is this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I hurried up the stairs, but by the time I entered, Daniel was already standing beside the bed, staring at the crimson stains. Marissa sobbed on the floor, clutching the sheets to her chest.

Through her tears, she explained everything—the illness, the treatments, the fear of losing him if he knew.

Daniel’s face was pale. He didn’t shout. He didn’t move. He simply stood there, silent, his jaw clenched, his eyes red.

The Distance

After that night, things were never the same. Daniel became distant. He no longer laughed as he used to, no longer reached for Marissa’s hand during meals. He spent more time at work, less time at home.

Marissa tried—oh, how she tried. She cooked his favorite dishes, left notes in his bag, smiled even when her body ached. But the silence between them grew, like a wall neither could climb.

One evening, as I watched her folding freshly washed sheets, I asked gently, “Do you regret marrying him?”

She shook her head, tears falling onto the fabric.

“No, Mama. I only regret that I couldn’t give him the life he dreamed of.”

The Regretful Ending

Three months after their wedding, Daniel packed a small bag. He didn’t announce it, but I heard the zipper, the quiet closing of drawers. Marissa stood at the doorway, her face pale, her hands trembling.

“Where are you going?” she whispered.

Daniel avoided her eyes.

“I just… need some time, Marissa.”

She didn’t stop him. She didn’t plead. She only nodded, her tears silent, her body still.

As I watched my son walk out of the house, suitcase in hand, I felt a crushing weight in my chest. Marissa collapsed onto the bed, clutching the sheets—once again stained with the secret she had tried so hard to hide.

And in that moment, I realized the truth: sometimes, love is not enough.

Epilogue

It has been months now. Daniel still hasn’t returned. He calls me sometimes, asks if Marissa is doing okay, but his voice carries no intention of coming home.

Marissa remains here, in Tagaytay, caring for me as though she were still his wife. Each morning, she continues her ritual—changing the sheets, washing them, hanging them out under the sun.

And each time I see her hands trembling as she pins the fabric to the line, I feel the sting of regret. If only I had spoken sooner—if only Daniel had chosen compassion over silence—maybe things would have been different.

But the house is quiet now. Too quiet.

And every morning, as the white sheets sway in the breeze, I am reminded of the bloodstained secret that broke not just one heart, but three.