Chapter 2 - The Morning of Unraveling
At 06:30 AM, the alarm clock on Mateo’s nightstand buzzed its usual grating tone.
Mateo rolled over in the king-sized bed, reaching out his arm to hit the snooze button. His hand swung across the empty linen sheets on my side of the bed. It was cold.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, his short black hair messy. "Elena?" he called out toward the bathroom. "Elena, are you still in there? You need to make the coffee before you leave. Mamá wants her herbal tea boiled twice."
There was no answer. Only the quiet hum of the air conditioner.
Mateo stretched, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, and walked into the master bathroom. The room was immaculate, except for two things: the vanity mirror was crystal clear, devoid of the usual steam from my early morning showers, and sitting in the center of the white porcelain sink was a neat, dense pile of dark hair, with the silver hair clippers resting beside it.
Mateo stared at the pile for a long second. He scratched his neck, a slight chuckle escaping his lips.
"Crazy woman," he muttered to himself. "She actually finished it. Well, good. Maybe now she’ll stop throwing tantrums about her precious career."
He walked out of the bedroom and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen, expecting to smell garlic rice, fried eggs, and brewed Benguet coffee. Instead, the kitchen was pitch black and silent. The stove was cold. The coffee maker was dark.
Doña Teresa was already sitting at the head of the dining table in her floral silk dressing gown, her reading glasses perched on her sharp nose, scrolling through her iPad.
"Where is she?" Doña Teresa asked without looking up. "The sun is up, Mateo. She knows I take my blood pressure medication at seven sharp with breakfast. Is she still sulking in her room because of last night?"
"I think she left early for work, Mamá," Mateo said, opening the stainless-steel refrigerator. "Her car isn't in the driveway."
Doña Teresa scoffed, setting her iPad down with a clatter. "Left early? After what happened? She should be on her knees apologizing to you for coming home at midnight smelling of wine! I gave her a proper lesson last night. A woman who doesn't respect her husband's home doesn't deserve the luxury of long hair. She looked like a shameless street vendor with those fancy pins."
"I know, Mamá," Mateo said smoothly, pulling out a carton of milk. "Don't worry about it. She’ll come back by dinner time. She always does. Where else is she going to go? Her parents are dead, and her little sister is still in college in Baguio."
Mateo poured milk into a glass and took a sip, then reached into his leather wallet resting on the kitchen counter to pull out his secondary credit card—the silver BDO card I had provided him two years ago.
"I'm going to run down to the bakery at the corner to get some pandesal and coffee," Mateo said. "Give me your card too, Mamá. I'll pick up those expensive imported berries you like from the gourmet grocery."
"Take it from my purse on the console," Doña Teresa directed, fanning herself with a magazine. "And tell her when she calls that I want the driver to take me to my bridge club at eleven."
Mateo grabbed his jacket, walked out to his entry-level sedan parked on the street outside the gate, and drove two blocks down to the upscale neighborhood bakery. He ordered four fresh pastries, two large cappuccinos, and a box of artisan cookies.
"That will be 1,240 pesos, sir," the young cashier said politely, handing him the receipt.
Mateo tapped the silver card against the terminal.
BEEP-BEEP.
A high-pitched error tone echoed from the machine. The terminal screen flashed a bright red box: TRANSACTION DECLINED - CONTACT ISSUER.
Mateo frowned. "Try it again. The chip is probably just dirty."
The cashier wiped the card on her apron and inserted it manually into the slot.
BEEP-BEEP.
TRANSACTION DECLINED - CARD CANCELED.
"Sir, it says the card has been canceled," the cashier stated, looking up at him with mild suspicion.
Mateo felt a hot prickle of embarrassment at the back of his neck. A woman behind him in line was watching him. "That's impossible. My wife... my wife manages the account. Let me use my mother's card."
He pulled out Doña Teresa’s supplementary card, sliding it into the machine.
BEEP-BEEP.
TRANSACTION DECLINED - CARD CANCELED.
Mateo’s jaw went slack. His heart gave a sudden, unpleasant thud against his ribs. "What the hell is wrong with your machine?"
"Sir, both cards are declined," the cashier said, her voice dropping into a firm, professional register. "Do you have cash or another form of payment?"
Mateo checked his wallet. He had two crumpled one-hundred-peso bills and some loose coins—about 240 pesos total. He had never carried cash because my supplementary cards had worked seamlessly for thirty-six months.
"Keep the coffee," Mateo snapped, dropping the pastries on the counter and rushing out of the shop.
He practically sprinted back to his car, pulled out his phone, and dialed my mobile number.
“The number you are calling is currently out of service or has blocked your calls. Please try again later.”
He tried again. Same automated voice.
Panic—cold, sharp, and unfamiliar—began to bloom in Mateo’s stomach. He opened his banking app to check his personal savings account. The balance read: 1,420.50 PHP. His entire monthly salary of 35,000 pesos from his administrative job had been spent three weeks ago on a designer watch he wanted to wear to my promotion dinner to look "equal" to my corporate colleagues.
He sped back to the house, tires screeching as he pulled into the driveway. He burst through the front door, slamming it behind him.
"Mamá!" Mateo yelled, his voice cracking slightly. "Mamá, where is the house binder? Where are the bank statements?!"
Doña Teresa stepped out of the kitchen, looking startled. "What is wrong with you, Mateo? Why are you shouting like a barbarian?"
"The cards aren't working!" Mateo shouted, pacing back and forth across the living room. "My card was declined! Your card was declined!"
Doña Teresa waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, stop being dramatic. She probably just forgot to pay the monthly bill because she was out drinking with her colleagues. Go to her desk in the study and get the emergency cash box."
Mateo ran into my home office. He pulled open the drawer of my mahogany desk where the emergency household cash box was usually kept.
The drawer was completely empty.
Beside the desk, the small electronic safe sat with its door wide open. Inside was nothing except a single piece of white paper, folded cleanly in half.
May you like
Mateo snatched the paper. On it, written in my dark blue fountain pen ink, were four lines:
The mortgage is due on the 25th. The electric bill is due on the 28th. The house is in my name. Enjoy your stay.
