Arman Dela Cruz and Lia Santos lived in Barangay Kamuning, Quezon City. After more than ten years of being together, they finally had children. This time, God blessed them with twin girls. Everyone who saw them said, “It’s truly a blessing from God. The whole family is beautiful.”

Ever since the girls were born, Lia’s mother-in-law—Mrs. Rosario, whom the neighbors used to call “Lola Sari”—was very indulgent. Every night she asked to be allowed to sleep with the girls in her room to help them care for them, saying that the “young couple” needed to rest. Considering that she was grown up and truly loved her granddaughters, Arman and Lia felt reassured and even secretly grateful.

Until one day, while they were both at work, Lia’s phone rang. On the other end was Aling Nena, a visibly frightened neighbor:

— “Come back right now, something serious is happening with the girls… Lola Sari… she did something you won’t believe!”

Arman and Lia paled, and quickly took a tricycle back home. Upon entering, the scene before their eyes left them speechless: the two girls screaming, their faces purple with fear. Several neighbors had rushed to intervene, because if not… who knows what would have happened?

It turned out that Lola Sari had been harboring jealousy and frustration in her heart for a long time.

She had hoped to have a son—one who would “carry on the family name.” Seeing that they were both girls, although she cared for them outwardly, she felt disappointed inside. The nights when she asked to sleep with them were, for her, moments to vent her frustration, find fault with them, and make them suffer.

That day, overcome with anger and resentment, she did something that left the entire neighborhood in shock. Fortunately, the neighbors were alert, heard the strange noises, and arrived just in time.

Seeing their two young daughters, Maya and Luna, Arman and Lia felt fear and pain: the person they trusted most was the one who acted most cruelly. The entire family fell into tragedy: on one side, the bond of blood; on the other, the natural instinct to protect their children.

The question that haunted them and the entire Kamuning community was:

— “How could you do that… to your own family?”

That night no one could sleep.

The hallway smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and old paint. Lia sat on a vinyl bench, with Maya leaning on her shoulder and Luna on her lap, both girls sobbing softly at the end of their cries. Arman passed by the Women and Children’s Protection Desk, speaking quietly to the officer, a tremor still at the edges of his voice.

— “They’re strong,” the ER resident had said a few minutes earlier, gently and calmly. “There are no signs of permanent physical damage. Some minor bruises. They need rest—and so do you.” He added a note for a social worker and the WCPD, as protocol requires when children arrive accompanied by neighbors instead of coos.

Outside, Kamuning looked like the same town at midday—tricycles whizzed by, smoke from fishballs curled into the uneven sky—but somehow everything felt different, as if the barangay had tilted a few degrees and everything important was rolling into the abyss.

Aling Nena waited by the door, her arms crossed over her robe. She was the first to hear the twins’ wails, the first to run and scream for help.

— “Daughter,” he said to Lia, placing a warm hand on her back, “you did the right thing bringing them. Paperwork first… tears will come later.”

Paper. Lia nodded. Paper is how you gather yourself when your heart is spinning: hospital forms, a report to the barangay office, a statement to the Women and Children Protection Unit (WCPD). Paper is how you tell the world: This happened to my daughters; it won’t happen again.

Arman returned with a printed list and his eyes wondering where to look.

“The officer said we can file the report tonight,” he said. “They’ll call the DSWD tomorrow morning.” He swallowed. “They also asked if we want protection.”

The words were practical, firm, like the guard’s bamboo cane hanging on the nail in the barangay hall. But when Arman said “protection order,” Lia saw her home: the small framed photo of her wedding, the pink curtains, the crib with a cloud-patterned sheet. She also saw the door they sometimes forgot to lock, because you never think danger could come from within.

“Present it,” Lia said, her voice surprising in its own firmness. “Present everything.”

History kept repeating itself, no matter how many times Lia closed and opened her eyes. Lola Sari’s voice—normally a coo, a soft croon, a tender “apo, apo” —had become something entirely different when the neighbors pushed open her bedroom door. Sharp. Irrational. A thunderclap that didn’t respect walls. The twins’ faces were red, their breaths coming in gasps; the pillow on the floor looked guilty even though it was only cotton. The room smelled of baby powder… and something else: resentment, shed each night like old linen.

Now, in this cold, bright place, Lia finally allowed herself to ask the question that fluttered around like a moth: Why?

The answer came in pieces, as the night refused to break down.

First, from a nurse who used to buy bananas at the same street stall as Lola Sari.

“She talked about wanting a boy,” the nurse whispered from behind a half-open privacy curtain. “A boy who would carry her last name. You know how grown-ups are.”

Then, from Arman’s phone, came a message from Tita Mercy, worried but also defensive:

—Your mother is already old. She didn’t mean any harm. Don’t shame the family. Go home and talk first.

Shame. As if shame were the most urgent variable, and not the twins’ tiny heartbeats that throbbed like escaped drums.

And finally, the final piece—when the WCPD officer, a woman with kind eyes and a neat ponytail, returned with her notebook.

“Her mother-in-law said she lost a child,” the officer informed her gently. “Not a baby—a miscarriage, late in life, a few years ago. Her husband blamed her. When he died, those words stuck. Sometimes grief twists.” She gripped her pen. “I’m not justifying. I’m explaining. You are the parents. Decide what it means to be safe.”

Safe. Lia inhaled and exhaled the word until it stopped sounding like a wish and started sounding like a plan.

They walked the short distance to the barangay hall, with Kamuning almost asleep except for the sari-sari store that never fully closed. The tanod on duty took their statements, spelling Lia’s surname as she pronounced it, not as it was often misinterpreted. Arman’s hand trembled when he signed; when Lia signed, his didn’t.

Inside the room, the smell of floor wax and reheated coffee lingered. The captain was summoned from his house next door; he arrived in sandals, with a serious expression.

“Kids first,” he said, the best four syllables Lia had heard all week.

They made a decision: no more overnight stays at Lola Sari’s house. No more unsupervised visits. The barangay issued a written agreement while they continued with the police report. The tanod offered to stop by the house every hour until dawn, just to make sure the bad guys didn’t make excuses.

When they returned to the street, the air was softer. Perhaps the night approved of those who had finally chosen a side.

At home, Aling Nena had left a pot of lugaw on the stove and a note written on a napkin:

— Feed the girls, then feed yourselves. I’m right next door if you need me.

In another corner of the kitchen, a rosary hung from a tack. She wasn’t there that morning.

Arman placed both hands on the sink and lowered his head. It took a long time before he spoke:

“I’m sorry.” She turned to Lia, her cheeks now wet. “For not seeing it. For wanting to believe the best. For asking you to trust a door I should have checked.”

Lia lowered the bottle and reached for him with the same hands that had given her daughters strength.
“ Now we see it ,” she said. “ And we won’t look away.”

Morning drew a fine line under night. A DSWD social worker arrived, clipboard in hand, her voice like that of a good teacher: firm but kind. She asked questions about the daily routine and the support available. She took notes from the neighbors who helped, the nurse’s observations, and the barangay captain’s statement.

” What do you want to happen now?” he asked finally.

Lia looked at the crib, at the faint imprint of two small bodies that were just learning that the world could be loud and then tender again.

—I want them to be able to sleep and wake up without fear. I want them to grow up knowing that “Grandma” means stories and snacks, not fear. And I want our boundaries to be a locked door, not a polite noose.

The social worker nodded.

— So, this is the way.

He outlined it: ongoing follow-up, a formal case file, referrals for counseling—one for the young family, one for Lola Sari, if she agrees. A recommendation to the family court for a protective order with clear conditions. Supervised visitation in the future, if—and only if—professionals deem safety not at stake.

Arman was troubled by the word “court,” and Lia saw in him the boy who once stood in line for roll call in the schoolyard, hoping everyone would receive a gold star. He wiped his eyes again.

” I’ll tell her ,” he said quietly. ” I’ll tell my mom this is all or nothing.”

” Try it ,” the social worker said. ” But remember: trying doesn’t mean sacrificing your daughters’ safety.”

He met his mother in the front yard, because the house itself was too fragile for the first drafts of a conversation. A tanod waited discreetly on the corner, not intervening, just present.

Lola Sari looked smaller than the night before, as if anger were a coat she’d taken off and no longer knew how to put back on. Her hair was flattened where it had touched the pillow she’d been unable to fall asleep on.
When he lifted his face, Arman could still see his childhood: the woman who wrapped leftover rice in a towel to keep him warm, who saved up to buy him school shoes, who celebrated with him under a plastic umbrella at school games.

“ Ma ,” he said, and the syllable was both anchor and wave.

” What did they make you sign?” she asked, her eyes glued to the window where the twins’ cell phone was hanging. “What did they put in your head?”

Arman stood firm.

” Nobody put anything on me ,” he replied, his voice low but firm. ” We saw what we saw. We heard what we heard. And we’re not going to risk it again.”

Lia lowered the bottle and reached for him with the same hands that had given strength to her daughters.

—Now we see it ,—he said.— And we’re not going to ignore it.

Morning drew a delicate line beneath night. A DSWD social worker arrived, clipboard in hand, her voice like a good teacher’s: firm but kind. She asked questions about routines and supports. She noted the neighbors who helped, the nurse’s observations, and the barangay captain’s statement.

” What do you want to happen from now on?” he finally asked.

Lia looked at the crib, with the fuzzy marks of two small bodies that were just learning that the world could be loud and then soft again.

—I want them to be able to sleep and wake up without doubt, without fear. I want them to grow up knowing that “Grandma” means stories and snacks, not fear. And I want our boundaries to be like a locked door, not a polite noose.

The social worker nodded.

— So, this is the way.

He outlined it: ongoing follow-up, formal opening of the case, referrals for counseling—one for the young family, another for Lola Sari if she agrees. A recommendation to the family court for a protective order with clear conditions. Supervised visitation in the future, if—and only if—professionals deem safety not a toss-up.

Arman became worried when he heard the word “court,” and Lia saw in him the boy who had once stood in line at school, wishing everyone would get a gold star. He wiped his eyes again.

” I’ll tell her ,” he said quietly. ” I’ll tell my mom this is all or nothing.”

” Try it ,” the social worker said. ” But remember: trying doesn’t mean sacrificing your daughters’ safety.”

He met his mother in the front yard because the house was too fragile for the first drafts. A tanod waited discreetly on the corner, present but uninvolved.

Lola Sari looked smaller than the night before, as if anger were a coat she no longer knew how to put on. Her hair was flattened where it had touched the pillow she couldn’t sleep on.
When he raised his face, Arman could still see his childhood: the woman who wrapped rice in a towel to keep him warm, who saved up to buy him school shoes, who cheered him on under a plastic umbrella at school games.

“ Ma,” he said, and that syllable was anchor and wave at the same time.

” What did they make you sign?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the window where the twins’ cell phones were hanging. “What did they put in your head?”

Arman stood firm.

” Nobody put anything on me ,” he replied quietly but resolutely. ” We saw what we saw. We heard what we heard. And we won’t risk it again.”

She shuddered, then straightened.

— A house without children— —he began to say, and Arman closed his eyes, he already knew that phrase.

When he opened them, he didn’t find a sermon or a plea. He pointed to the door.

—Behind that wood are two little girls who will carry my name the way names should be carried: with kindness. If you want to be a part of that, there will be rules. If you can’t, we’ll love you… from afar.

For a moment, it seemed she was going to step forward, ask for the rules, take them like medicine, and swallow them. But her mouth hardened.

” You’re ashamed of me ,” she said, and the old wound between her and the dead man who blamed her began to bleed again. ” You chose your wife over your mother.”

Arman didn’t look at her.

” I choose my daughters, ” he said. “I choose what is right.”

He left without closing the door. The silence he left behind was worse than any scream.

The days became a careful choreography. No one opened the door without looking first. The twins returned to their soft babbling, their tiny fists learning the shape of the air; sometimes they were still startled by the roar of the street, but now they recovered more quickly. Lia kept a small notebook where she wrote down daily miracles:
Maya smiled at the spoon today. Luna slept for two hours straight. We laughed at the same silly commercial.

At night, the tanod still walked down the street with his cane, sometimes gently tapping it against the pole like a metronome for a neighborhood trying to find its rhythm.
Aling Nena left banana cue every Thursday.
The WCPD officer called to follow up.
The social worker scheduled the counseling sessions.

And then—a week after the night Kamuning didn’t sleep—there was a soft tap on the door. Arman looked through the peephole. He opened it only halfway.

It was Tita Mercy, with red eyes, her hands holding a container of ginataang bilo-bilo .

“ I came alone ,” she said quickly. “No drama. Just… listen to me, please. ” She took a deep breath. “Mom wants to see the girls. She says she accepts your terms. She says she’ll go to counseling. She says she’ll apologize.”

Lia said nothing. She had rehearsed this moment many times in her head, imagining speeches as small shields. But now that it was real, something calmer arose within her—something like a prayer with rules attached.

“ Not now ,” he said. “Maybe not next week. Let’s talk to the councilor and make a plan. The visits will be in the barangay hall, and only if everyone agrees it’s safe. Not ‘maybe,’ not ‘just for a moment.’”

Tita Mercy nodded, with tears of relief at such clarity.

—Okay , —he said. —Okay.

As he walked away, he turned around.

” Lia ,” he added softly. ” I was wrong to speak of shame. Thank you for doing what I was afraid to do.”

When the door closed, Arman leaned his forehead against it.

” We’re not cruel ,” he whispered, as if talking to the wood. ” We’re caring.”

Lia intertwined her fingers with his.

—Caution is love with a backbone , —he said.— We are learning.

Behind them, Maya laughed in her sleep, a sound like a small bell. Luna’s hand caressed the mattress, seeking her sister’s warmth, and found it.

Lia picked up her notebook and wrote one more line:
We chose the difficult, and the house still stands.

Outside, Kamuning was breathing. The morning light spilled onto the street across the street like a fresh page.