I went home and saw the yaya wearing a silk nightdress, revealing her long, smooth legs. My mind went blank—I acted on impulse and rushed in…
It was already 11 p.m. when I stepped out of the taxi in Pasig City, the sharp scent of alcohol clinging to my breath. The dinner with clients had gone perfectly—contracts sealed, compliments exchanged. I felt powerful, invincible.
But beneath that pride was a dark desire I had buried for a long time behind the image of a decent Filipino husband.
That desire was Jenny—our new yaya, just 20 years old, fresh from the province, whom my wife hired two months ago.
Jenny was young, untouched by hardship, like a flower that hadn’t yet known storms. Even in a faded pambahay, her figure was impossible to ignore. I hated myself for it, but more than once I caught my breath when she walked past.
My wife, Marites, was no longer the woman she once was. Two pregnancies had changed her body. Sleepless nights darkened her skin, and her entire life revolved around cooking, laundry, and raising our children.
The routine of married life—combined with temptation living under the same roof—had pushed me dangerously close to betrayal.
When I entered the house, everything was dark except for the kitchen light.
I was about to go upstairs when I froze.
Near the minibar, under the dim yellow glow, stood a figure with her back to me, pouring water into a glass.
She wasn’t wearing the usual loose house clothes.
She was wearing a red silk nightgown—the same one I had bought for Marites on our wedding anniversary years ago. She never wore it, saying it was “too embarrassing.”
And those legs…
The short fabric revealed long, pale legs glowing softly under the light. Her long black hair was neatly tied back.
That posture. That youth.
It wasn’t Marites.
“Jenny…” her name flashed through my mind.
In my drunken haze, I created a story instantly—maybe she noticed the way I looked at her. Maybe she waited until my wife was asleep. Maybe this was her signal.
Alcohol burned through my veins, erasing what little conscience I had left. I forgot my wife was upstairs.
I approached quietly.
She didn’t turn around. Whether she didn’t hear me or pretended not to, I didn’t care.
When I was close enough, I lost control and wrapped my arms around her slim waist from behind.
“Ah…” she let out a soft sound. Her body trembled—but she didn’t pull away.
That confirmed everything I imagined.
I leaned in and whispered, my breath heavy with wine.
“Pretending, huh? Wearing this just to sleep? Trying to catch your amo’s attention? Don’t worry… I’ll take care of you tonight.”
She stayed silent, shaking slightly. I mistook it for shyness.
Without hesitation, I lifted her and carried her into the guest room downstairs.
I laid her on the bed. In the darkness, my confidence grew. I kissed her. Felt her warmth.
“You smell familiar…” I murmured, my hands moving.
My hand slipped beneath the thin silk dress, moving upward.
I expected smooth, young skin.
But then—
I froze.
Under my palm was not firmness, but a deep scar. Long. Familiar. Surrounded by soft flesh marked with stretch lines.
My heart stopped.
A cesarean scar.
The same scar from when Paolo was born. The same stretch marks left by two pregnancies.
“Oh God…”
I pulled my hand back as if burned. The drunken haze vanished instantly.
The light turned on.
I shut my eyes.
When I opened them—
It wasn’t Jenny.
It was Marites.
My wife.
She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t angry.
She knelt on the bed, staring at the ceiling, tears silently running down her face—empty, shattered.
“Why did you stop?” she asked softly, her voice fragile.
“Were you looking for the yaya? I’m sorry… this is all I have now. Scars.”
I collapsed to the floor.
“Marites… I—how—why—”
She sat up slowly, pulling the nightgown down to cover the scar.
“This afternoon, I saw how you looked at Jenny,” she said calmly. “I noticed everything. I sent her to her aunt’s house for a few days.”
She let out a bitter laugh.
“I wore the dress you bought me years ago—the one I was ashamed to wear because of my body. I turned off the lights. I waited.”
Her eyes met mine.
“It was a gamble. I hoped you’d recognize your wife. Or at least ask who it was. But you didn’t. You said her name. You praised her skin.”
She smiled—a painful smile.
“In your eyes, I’m already old. And these scars—the ones I earned by giving you children—are what killed your desire, right?”
“No… Marites, I was drunk—please—”
I reached for her hand. She pulled away.
She stood, took a folder from the dresser, and dropped it in front of me.
Annulment papers. Already signed.
“It wasn’t the alcohol,” she said softly. “It only revealed who you really are. You wanted the skin of a twenty-year-old—but what you touched was the sacrifice of a forty-year-old wife.”
She looked at my shaking hands.
“That moment you froze? That pain? It hurt me more than any slap.”
“Sign it,” she said. “You’re free now. Starting tomorrow, you can bring any young woman with long legs into this house. No scars to remind you of responsibility.”
She walked out.
I stayed on the floor, staring at the papers… then at my hands.
The scar I touched burned in my memory.
It wasn’t ugly.
It was a mother’s medal.
I sat there until morning.
And I knew—our family ended the moment desire blinded me to the truth beneath the silk.
Youth fades.
Lust passes.
But sacrifice—once betrayed—can never be replaced.
Sometimes, one careless touch is enough to destroy an entire life.