In an old house on the outskirts of Quezon City, a small family lives quietly.
Lara, 28 years old, lives with her husband Miguel, an engineer who often travels far for work, and her father-in-law – Mang Ernesto.
Whenever Miguel goes on a business trip, the atmosphere in the house becomes strange.
Mang Ernesto, who is usually quiet, begins to develop a habit that worries Lara: whenever there are only two people in the house, he calls her in a low but deep voice:
“Lara, come here for a moment. I want to tell you something.”
Lara is a good daughter-in-law, respectful of her elders. But every time she passes by the old wooden door of Mr. Ernesto’s room, she trembles.
She always closes the door behind her, her eyes are unreadable, her voice seems to be hiding something.
On such occasions, he would only ask a few small questions – about food, about the electricity and water bill, or ask her to look at some old photos on her phone.
But the way he walked around, whispering, and then telling her “don’t tell anyone,” weighed down and confused Lara.
“Why does it always have to be a secret?” – she thought.
One rainy night, four days after Miguel was away on a business trip.
Lara was cleaning the kitchen when she heard Mr. Ernesto call her, his voice unusually urgent:
“Lara! Come here, hurry up!”
Her heart was pounding.
She quickly wiped her hands and climbed the stairs. In the room, Mr. Ernesto was sitting at the old table. In front of him was a wooden box, the lock unlocked.
“Close the door,” he said softly, “Look at this. I need your help, but don’t tell anyone.”
Lara was about to ask more questions when suddenly there was a loud noise downstairs – the sound of a door opening.
Hurrying footsteps echoed up the stairs.
The bedroom door opened.
Miguel stood there, his shirt still wet from the rain, his eyes red.
He looked from his wife to his father, then stopped at the closed door behind Lara.
“What’s going on here?” – his voice shaking with anger
Lara stammered:
“Miguel… you’ve gone home, I thought—”
But Miguel interrupted, walking straight in, pointing at his father:
“Dad, I want to hear the truth. Every time I’m away, why do you call Lara to your room? Don’t say it’s just about the house!”
The air thickened.
Mr. Ernesto stood up, his face no longer stern but tired.
He sighed, took out the wooden box, and opened the lid.
Inside was an old photo album, black and white photos of a young woman, and yellow letters.
“This is your mother, son,” – he said, his voice choked.
“I wanted to make a gift for you — a book that would tell the story of the love your mother and I had before she died.
But I don’t know how to write, nor do I know how to choose a picture.
So I asked Lara for help, but I don’t want you to know.
I don’t want you to be hurt when you remember her.”
Miguel was stunned.
He turned to Lara.
She nodded, tears falling.
“Dad, I don’t want to tell you, because I’m afraid you’ll be sad again. I just want to help dad finish the album that he’s going to give you for your birthday.”
Miguel collapsed, hugging the album.
“Father, Lara… forgive me. I thought… you were betraying me.”
Lara choked on what he said. Ernesto placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and said softly, “Son, there is no more pain for a father who knows how to forgive.”
That night, the three of them sat together.
On the table were old photos of their late mother:
her smile, her hair, the faded love letters.
Lara helped arrange each photo, Miguel wrote the captions, and Ernesto told each memory.
Each story was like a piece of a puzzle that made up the image of his late mother.
The door to the room that had once been closed and full of secrets was now open, letting light flood into the small house.
That light not only dispelled the darkness of misunderstanding — but also illuminated the love that seemed to have fallen asleep in each person.
And with the sound of rain falling on the veranda of Quezon City that night, people heard laughter — not loud, not noisy — but enough to know: sometimes, family love takes only a second to understand, but a lifetime to maintain.
