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It was a misty December morning in Quezon City. The air was cool, and the light crept weakly through the windows. I had my old shawl wrapped around my shoulders and the bank booklet tucked safely in my hand. I walked quietly down the hallway toward Marco’s room.
Before I could knock, I heard my daughter-in-law, Denise, speaking in a sharp whisper.
Marco sighed. “She has nowhere else to go.”
“When we got married, she didn’t even help us financially. Just that old television. And now we have to adjust for her?”
His next words came soft, but heavy. “I’ll find her a place. We’ll send money each month.”
I stood frozen outside the door, my heart sinking with each word.
