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Four Years of Waiting
For four long years, my husband sent every centavo he earned to his mother. He trusted her completely.
“Son, don’t worry,” she told him over the phone. “I’ll take care of everything. When you come home, we’ll buy a house for you.”
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.
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