I went home and found Yaya wearing a silk dress, revealing her long, smooth legs. I couldn’t think of anything else—I jumped straight in…
I went home and saw our yaya standing in the kitchen, wearing a silk nightdress that didn’t belong to her.
And in that moment, I thought I knew exactly who she was.
It was already past 11 p.m.
I stepped out of a taxi along EDSA, the smell of alcohol clinging to me after a long night entertaining clients in Ortigas. The meeting had gone well. I felt confident—untouchable.
But beneath that confidence lived a desire I had hidden for months.
Liza—our new yaya, barely in her twenties, from the province. Quiet. Polite. Always lowering her eyes.
My wife, Maribel, had changed after two pregnancies. Her world revolved around our children, the house, the endless routines. Somewhere along the way, distance had grown between us—and temptation had quietly settled under the same roof.
When I entered the house, it was dark. Only the kitchen light was on.
I was about to head upstairs when I froze.
Someone was standing there, back turned, pouring water.
She wasn’t wearing the usual house clothes.
She was wearing a red silk nightdress.
My heart pounded.
That dress…
I had bought it years ago for Maribel. She never wore it, saying it made her uncomfortable.
The woman’s hair fell freely down her back.
Her posture was youthful. Unfamiliar.
My mind jumped to a conclusion I will regret for the rest of my life.
Liza.
My judgment was clouded—by alcohol, arrogance, and entitlement. I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t ask a single question.
And that was my greatest failure.
But when my hand brushed the fabric—
I froze.
Something was wrong.
The skin beneath wasn’t unfamiliar.
It was heartbreakingly familiar.
Scars.
Stretch marks.
The marks of two pregnancies.
The marks Maribel carried after bringing our children into the world.
The room spun.
The light turned on.
And there she was.
My wife.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t slap me.
She knelt on the bed, eyes empty, tears quietly sliding down her face.
“So,” she said softly, her voice breaking,
“Is this what you were looking for?”
I collapsed to the floor.
She wrapped the nightdress around herself, as if to hide the very body that had once given me everything.
“I wore this tonight,” Maribel continued, her voice calm but hollow,
“because I wanted to know something.”
She looked at me then—really looked.
“Would you recognize your wife…
or only notice what she has lost?”
I had no words.
She reached into the drawer and placed a document on the bed.
Already signed.
“I didn’t lose my beauty,” she said quietly.
“I gave it away—willingly—for our family.”
She stood up.
“You didn’t even ask who I was.”
Then she walked out.
Leaving me alone with my shame.
That night, I sat on the floor until morning.
And for the rest of my life, I will remember this truth:
Desire fades.
Youth changes.
But sacrifice—
that is love.
And once you betray it,
no apology is ever enough.