The man I once called my husband—right in front of me and the woman he was having an affair with—directly poured a bowl of shrimp paste over my head.
The thick, sticky paste flowed down my face and neck, soaking my clothes. Its sharp, suffocating stench almost made me dizzy. I stood like a statue in the middle of the living room, unable to move, while behind him I heard the woman’s mocking laughter.
She was pregnant. One hand rested on her belly, her voice sweet but full of poison:
“You did that to reassure me. The baby boy in my womb cannot have a useless woman as his stepmother.”
My husband didn’t stop her.
Instead, he shouted at me:
“Apologize to her. If you can’t give birth to a son, this is all you’re worth.”
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t beg.
Silently, I went into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and let the water wash the shrimp paste down the drain. While doing so, my hands trembled as I typed on my phone.
I sent just one line to my parents’ family group chat:
“I’ve been humiliated. Come here now.”
Less than ten minutes later, the doorbell began ringing one after another.
The first to enter was my father.
Then my mother.
My two older brothers.
My uncle.
My aunt.
The living room, which moments ago had been noisy and full of arrogance, suddenly fell silent—like a grave.
My husband panicked and stood up, forcing a smile.
“This is a matter between husband and wife… the wife’s family really shouldn’t interfere…”
My father didn’t answer him.
He simply stared quietly at the bowl of shrimp paste still sitting on the table. Then he slowly turned his gaze toward me—
And that was when what they never imagined began.
My father is not an outdated man.
He doesn’t shout.
He doesn’t curse.
But when he is silent, it is far more frightening than any yelling.
Slowly, he placed his cane on the floor. The sound echoed clearly in the stillness of the living room.
Tap.
He looked at my husband.
“Whose house is this?” he asked calmly.
My husband inhaled sharply and hesitated.
“O-ours,” he answered, forcing his voice steady.
My father smiled—a smile without warmth.
“Yours?”
“Are you sure?”
Before he could answer, one of my brothers spoke. He took out a folder and placed it on the table, right beside the bowl of shrimp paste.
“The house title,” he said coldly.
“It’s under my sister’s name. Not yours.”
My husband’s face turned pale.
The mistress suddenly stood up, holding her stomach, pretending to feel dizzy.
“Brother… I’m pregnant,” she said shakily.
“Maybe we can talk about this properly…”
My mother suddenly laughed—a short, sharp laugh.
“Pregnant?”
“Well, when my daughter was pregnant, where were you?”
The woman froze.
My mother stepped closer to her, staring straight at her.
“Do you know,” she said slowly,
“that women who act arrogant just because they’re carrying a child are often not even sure who the real father is?”
It was as if lightning struck the woman.
“W-what do you mean?” she screamed.
My mother didn’t answer.
Instead, my uncle spoke. He was a former barangay (community) official.
“There’s already a police blotter,” he said, pulling out his phone.
“Public humiliation, damage to a woman’s dignity, psychological abuse.”
My husband stepped back.
“It wasn’t physical—”
“Not physical?” one of my brothers snapped.
“You poured shrimp paste over your wife in front of your mistress. What was that—affection?”
I stood quietly in a corner.
My hair was still wet.
But inside, I was finally starting to breathe again.
My father walked up to me.
“My child,” he said softly,
“do you want to leave?”
I looked at my husband.
At the woman who had been smiling just moments earlier.
I smiled.
“Not yet,” I answered.
“There’s still something I want to hear.”
My husband’s eyes widened.
“W-what?” he asked.
I took a deep breath.
“I want you to hear,” I said clearly,
“how you destroyed your own life.”
My eldest brother stood up.
“We brought something else,” he said.
“A DNA test result.”
The mistress screamed.
“That’s not true!”
“You’re lying!”
The paper was placed on the table.
“The child you’re carrying is not my brother-in-law’s,” my brother said firmly.
“It belongs to another man.”
It felt like the world collapsed.
My husband slumped into a chair.
“No… impossible…” he whispered.
I walked up to the mistress.
“Do you know,” I asked calmly,
“that the moment you said the baby was a boy, I already knew you were lying?”
She stared at me.
“Because,” I continued,
“you weren’t even four months pregnant yet. You couldn’t possibly be sure.”
The entire living room fell silent.
Suddenly, the woman burst into sobs.
“I didn’t mean to…”
“He loves me—”
“Love?” my mother snapped.
“If he loved you, why were you the one being hidden while my daughter was being humiliated?”
My father stood up.
“Listen carefully,” he said firmly.
“We’re not here to make noise. We’re here to end this.”
He looked at my husband.
“You will sign the separation papers.”
“You will leave this house.”
“And you will never go near my daughter again.”
“If you don’t,” my uncle added,
“you’ll be facing charges tomorrow.”
Silence.
Then my husband nodded.
“Yes…”
The mistress collapsed onto the floor, crying.
“What will happen to me?” she asked.
I looked at her.
“You’ll live,” I replied.
“But not the life you imagined.”
Months passed.
I returned to my parents’ home.
Little by little, I rebuilt myself.
A case was filed.
My husband lost his job.
The mistress was abandoned by the child’s real father.
And one day—
There was a knock on the door.
It was her.
Thin.
No makeup.
No arrogance.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
I looked at her for a long moment.
“Yes,” I said.
“But not as a victim.”
She cried.
“Please forgive me.”
I smiled—not bitterly.
“I’ve already forgiven you,” I said.
“Not for you. For myself.”
I closed the door.
That day, I learned:
👉 A woman with her family behind her is never weak.
👉 A man who lowers himself to please a mistress usually ends up falling alone.
👉 And respect—once you destroy it—can never be bought back, not even with a so-called “baby boy.”