It had only been a week since my son Carlo married Lara, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Lara seemed to be everything I could have hoped for in a daughter-in-law: gentle, respectful, and always gracious. The entire family was charmed by her, and I found myself telling all the neighbors how lucky we were to have such a perfect addition to our family. She fit in effortlessly with our simple life in Tagaytay, always helping around the house and treating everyone with kindness.
But just a few days after the wedding, I began to notice something that unsettled me.
Every morning, Lara would wake up early and immediately strip the bed—blankets, sheets, and pillowcases—without fail. She would hang the linens outside under the sun, even on the hottest days. Sometimes, she’d replace them again in the evening. At first, I thought it was just a little quirk of hers, perhaps stemming from a desire to keep the room fresh, but then the excuses started.
“I’m sensitive to dust, Mama,” she would explain with a soft, apologetic smile. “I sleep better when the linens are freshly washed.”
I found this odd. No one else in the house had any issues with dust, and the wedding sheets were brand new—expensive, even. They still carried the scent of fresh linen, so there was no reason for them to need constant washing. But Lara was so polite, so well-mannered, that I didn’t press her. Still, the repetition felt off, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being hidden.
The more I thought about it, the more it troubled me. Was she perhaps trying to mask something? Was there a deeper reason for her obsessive need to wash the sheets so frequently?
One morning, I decided to find out.
I told Lara that I needed to go to the market in Lemery and that I might be gone for a while. As soon as she moved into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, I slipped upstairs, careful not to make a sound. I had to know what was going on.
I opened the door to their bedroom quietly, my heart pounding. The room smelled different today—there was a sharp, metallic scent in the air. I took a hesitant step forward, and as I neared the bed, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
I slowly lifted the corner of the blanket where Carlo usually slept, and my stomach churned. The bed, once pristine and neatly made, now held a horrific sight.
Blood.
There, staining the sheets, was a dark red blotch, smeared across the fabric. I felt my legs weaken, and I gripped the bedframe to steady myself. My vision blurred, and I had to take several deep breaths to keep from fainting. I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. Why hadn’t I noticed this before?
It was all too much, too sudden. How could this be? My heart raced in my chest, and my thoughts raced even faster. My son—my dear, precious son—had been sleeping in this bed every night, oblivious to the stain that now seemed to swallow the room. But why hadn’t Lara said anything?
I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to confront her immediately, but I couldn’t. Something told me there was more to this story, something deeper that I needed to understand before I said anything. So, I took a step back, left the room, and descended to the kitchen where Lara was humming to herself as she prepared breakfast.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to compose myself. My hands were shaking, my mind racing, but I managed to hold it together.
When Lara turned to greet me, her smile was warm and innocent, as if nothing had changed. “Mama, I’m making your favorite for breakfast. You must be tired from the market run.”
I nodded, too shaken to speak.
Later that afternoon, I decided to confront her. I couldn’t let it go any longer. There were too many questions, too many things I didn’t understand. I sat across from her in the living room, my heart heavy with the truth I had discovered.
“Lara,” I began gently, “I need to ask you something. It’s about the sheets.”
She froze, her hands stilling for a brief moment as if she had been expecting this conversation. Then she met my gaze, and I could see the faintest trace of fear in her eyes, quickly masked by her usual calm demeanor.
“What’s wrong with the sheets, Mama?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Why are you washing them so often?” I pressed. “I noticed… something on the bed, Lara. There was blood.”
Lara’s face went pale, and for the first time since I’d met her, I saw something flicker in her eyes—regret, shame. She lowered her gaze to her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she began, her voice shaking. “I didn’t want to worry anyone.”
“Worry about what?” I asked, my voice soft now, trying to understand.
Lara took a deep breath before continuing. “The night before our wedding… I had an accident. I… I wasn’t expecting it. I… my body, Mama, it’s not what it used to be. After the wedding, things were just different. I didn’t know how to explain it to Carlo, and I didn’t want him to feel burdened. So, I’ve been washing the sheets every day to cover it up… the blood. I didn’t know how to tell him.”
I felt my heart break as the truth sank in. My sweet, innocent daughter-in-law, too afraid to speak the truth, had been carrying this burden alone, convinced she had to hide it from everyone. It wasn’t just blood on the sheets. It was fear, shame, and confusion—emotions she couldn’t express.
I reached out and took her hand gently. “Lara,” I said softly, “you don’t have to hide from us. You don’t have to do this alone. You’re part of our family now, and we’ll get through this together.”
She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears, and for the first time since she entered our home, I saw the vulnerability behind her poised exterior. She nodded, and I pulled her into an embrace.
And in that moment, I knew that the strength of a family was built not on perfection, but on honesty and support. Together, we would face whatever came next.