My son, Daniel, had just married Sofia. Their wedding was intimate, filled with warmth, laughter, and blessings from family and friends. Everyone admired Sofia—her grace, her kindness, her gentle way of speaking.
I often boasted to my sisters at church, “Daniel chose well. Sofia is a true treasure.”
For the first few days of their marriage, everything seemed perfect. But I soon noticed something odd. Each morning, the sheets from their bed were missing—washed, dried, and replaced. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I heard the rustle of fabric, the quiet sound of water running, and the faint sobs of a woman.
One day, unable to contain my worry, I confronted her gently:
— “Sofia, dear, why do you wash the sheets so often?”
She smiled faintly, her eyes avoiding mine.
— “I just… I like everything clean, Mom.”
But I knew there was more.
That evening, as I went to check on them, I opened their bedroom door without knocking. What I saw froze my blood.
The bed was stripped bare, the sheets soaking in a bucket of crimson water. Sofia stood trembling, clutching Daniel’s pajama shirt to her chest. His chest was bandaged, but I could see the stains—dark red, spreading.
My heart pounded. “What is this? Sofia, what’s happening to my son?”
Her body shook, and tears poured down her cheeks. She dropped to her knees.
— “Mom… Daniel is sick. He has late-stage tuberculosis. The coughing, the blood… he didn’t want you to know. He thought it would break you. We married quickly because… because he doesn’t have much time left.”
The world collapsed beneath me. My son—my only boy—had hidden his suffering, while his young bride carried the burden in silence, night after night, changing bloody sheets so I would never see.
I sank beside her, my tears mingling with hers. For the first time, we clung to each other, not as in-laws, but as two women bound by love for the same man.
From that day forward, I no longer pretended not to see. Together, Sofia and I cared for Daniel. We washed his clothes, changed his sheets, fed him, and held him when the pain grew unbearable.
One evening, as Sofia sat by his side, Daniel whispered with a smile, “Thank you, love… for staying. Even when you knew.”
Three months later, he left us—peacefully, in Sofia’s arms, his final breath wrapped in her whispered prayer.
Since then, Sofia never returned to her parents’ house. She never remarried. Instead, she stayed with me, running our humble household, filling the silence with her quiet strength.
When people ask, “Why is your daughter-in-law still with you, even after your son’s passing?”
I smile softly, tears glistening in my eyes, and reply:
— “Because she was never just my son’s wife. She became my daughter. And this will always be her home.”