Just days after the wedding, it felt natural—almost inevitable—that he moved in with us. There were no long discussions or formal agreements; it was simply understood. He had nowhere else to go, and we had a spare room. At first, I told myself it would be temporary, a few months until we found another solution. Months quietly turned into years, and years turned into decades. For twenty years, he lived under our roof until his very last breath. During all that time, he never contributed a single peso toward electricity, water, food, or medicine. He didn’t help with the grandchildren when they were born, didn’t cook, didn’t clean, and rarely even spoke unless spoken to.

Some relatives, not always quietly, called him a “first-class parasite.” I never said those words out loud, but I won’t pretend they didn’t echo in my own mind on difficult days. Still, whenever frustration rose in my chest, I reminded myself that he was an old man, my father-in-law, and that if I complained, no one else would take responsibility for him. So I stayed silent, swallowed my resentment, and carried on, even though it sometimes felt like I was dragging an invisible weight behind me through life.