It was close to midnight, and the hallways of San Isidro Lodge smelled faintly of cheap room deodorizer and leftover fried chicken from a guest’s takeout bag. I was mopping the tiled walkway when Mila and Jonas, my co-workers, walked past whispering.
“Same guy, no? Yung pumupunta every week?” Jonas giggled.
“That one? Yeah. But tonight’s girl is different. Bata pa. Maybe college.”
I didn’t care. Guests brought whoever they wanted. It wasn’t my business.
But then a sedan pulled into the garage of Room 12, and when the driver stepped out—my entire body froze.
The jacket. I knew that jacket. I bought it for him on our anniversary sale.
The posture—tired shoulders, slightly crooked stance from an old basketball injury.
The voice.
“Dalian mo,” he whispered to the girl.
My heart stopped.
Dante.
My husband.
And beside him, a young woman—probably 19 or 20—hair curled, wearing a short dress and a giggle too bright for midnight. She clung to his arm.
I felt the mop slide from my fingers.
Air. I needed air.
I stepped back, but the wall caught me. My knees weakened. Every penny missing. Every excuse. Every overtime. The nights he didn’t come home. It all snapped together like a cruel puzzle.
I thought his sacrifices were for us.
But he wasn’t tired from work.
He was tired from women.
Tears pricked my eyes, hot and humiliating. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t storm inside the room. I didn’t create a scandal.
I just wiped my tears on my sleeve and waited outside the garage—quiet, still, numb.
Hours later, they finally stepped out, laughing like they hadn’t a care in the world.
And before Dante could even register my presence—
I slapped him.
Not a weak slap.
A slap built from years of hunger, stress, humiliation, and misplaced devotion.
His eyes widened. He looked like a child who had been caught stealing, speechless and pale.
I walked away without looking back.
Straight to the apartment.
Straight to my few belongings.
Straight to a bus terminal.
I didn’t wait for him to come home.
I didn’t wait for apologies.
By sunrise, I was already on a provincial bus heading to Batangas, back to my late mother’s old house—tiny, creaking, quiet.
The opposite of Manila.
The opposite of him.
Life moved slowly in the province, like a wound learning to close.
Every morning, I swept the small balcony, listened to the roosters crow, and drank coffee while watching the fog slip down the coconut trees. I was alone, yes. But silence, for the first time in years, didn’t feel heavy. It felt like healing.
I still hurt—my chest still tightened when I remembered Room 12—but the pain didn’t scream anymore; it whispered.
I thought that was the end of my story with Dante.
Until my phone began to ring nonstop one morning.
Multiple notifications.
Tags.
Mentions.
Messages.
Hundreds of them.
“Laura, you need to see this!”
“Omg girl grabe n’yo pahinga.”
“Tagged you in a viral video!”
Confused, I clicked the link.
The comments alone made my skin crawl.
“Extreme scandal!”
“That’s what happens when you cheat!”
“Diyos ko, may patay!”
“That woman and the guy—gone!”
“Karma is real.”
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
What video?
When I finally pressed play, I felt like time collapsed.
The setting: a motor lodge room.
A couple together on a bed.
Laughing—playful—too comfortable.
Then the door burst open.
A man—furious, wild—holding something metallic.
He rushed at them.
The woman screamed.
The man tried to run.
The clip cut off, ending abruptly.
I zoomed the paused frame.
The man on the bed—
Dante.
My knees weakened.
My hands turned cold.
My whole body shook.
According to comments, the enraged man was the woman’s husband. And he had attacked both the woman… and Dante.
People were guessing who survived, who didn’t. But none of the comments made it clear.
Some said both died.
Some said only one.
Some said the husband fled after the attack.
But one thing was certain:
Dante had been there. Again. With someone else.
And this time, the price was unimaginable.
For hours, I just stared at the screen.
Should I cry?
Should I scream?
Should I laugh?
I didn’t know.
My mind was a storm—confusion, relief, guilt, anger, grief—whirling so violently that I felt hollow.
Dante cheated.
Dante lied for years.
Dante spent the money meant for our family on other women.
Dante destroyed our marriage long before I left.
But still—
he had been my husband.
And now, he was gone.
The viral clip spread everywhere. News outlets blurred faces, but social media didn’t. Within hours, half of Metro Manila had an opinion. Strangers dissected my marriage, my life, my pain as if it were entertainment.
“Serves him right.”
“Karma hits hard.”
“Buti nga.”
“The wife must feel satisfied!”
Satisfied?
Is that what they thought?
As if betrayal erases humanity.
As if heartbreak writes over love.
As if widows laugh when their husbands die, even if those husbands were flawed.
I placed my phone on the table, face down.
For the first time since leaving Manila, I cried—
not for Dante, not entirely,
but for me.
For the years I wasted.
For the loyalty I gave.
For the hope I clung to.
For the woman I used to be—
the one who believed love could fix everything.
The next week, my phone rang again.
Unknown number.
Manila area code.
I hesitated before answering.
“Hello? Is this Ms. Laura Santiago?”
My chest tightened. “Yes…”
“This is Officer Ramirez from QCPD. It’s regarding the incident at San Isidro Motor Lodge.”
My breath caught.
The officer explained—
that yes, the woman had died instantly.
That Dante was found severely injured and was rushed to the hospital.
That he survived—but barely—and was now in critical condition.
Alive.
My emotions tangled again.
Why was I relieved?
Why was I sad?
Why was I angry that I felt anything at all?
Officer Ramirez asked if I wanted to be listed as an emergency contact.
I said no.
I had no more space for that kind of pain.
But when the call ended, a silence pressed against my ribs.
I walked to the window and stared at the fields outside.
Children were playing patintero.
Someone’s radio played an old OPM love song.
Life went on.
I whispered, to no one in particular:
“Why, Dante? Why did you choose this path?”
Weeks turned into months.
The scandal died down.
New scandals replaced the old.
The world moved on—
finally.
I planted vegetables in the backyard.
I repainted the walls of my mother’s house.
I found part-time work in a small local bakery.
People in the barangay welcomed me easily.
No one knew my story; no one cared about Manila gossip.
Slowly, that tightness in my chest loosened.
One day, while sweeping the balcony, I felt it fully—
Lightness.
A freedom I had never tasted.
Not the freedom of being single.
Not the freedom of revenge.
But the freedom of finally choosing myself.
And for the first time in a very, very long time,
I smiled without bitterness.
Four months later, I received one final message.
It came from a hospital staff member.
A simple envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
From Dante.
The handwriting was shaky.
Laura,
I don’t know if I’ll get to say this again.
I’m sorry.
For the lies.
For the money I wasted.
For choosing the wrong things.
For hurting you.
You were the only person who ever believed in me.
I didn’t deserve you.
I hope you find peace.
Please live a good life.—Dante
I didn
’t cry.
I didn’t crumble.
I simply folded the letter, placed it in a box, and whispered:
“Goodbye.”
Later that week, the staff notified me that he passed away from complications.
I prayed for him.
Not as a wife.
Not as a widow.
But as someone who once loved him dearly.
A year passed.
I no longer worked at San Isidro Lodge.
I no longer lived in Manila.
I no longer carried the weight of betrayal.
I worked at the bakery, saved a little, made friends, joined church activities.
I learned to laugh again, loudly.
One morning, sitting on the same balcony where I once cried over a viral video, I watched the sunrise bleed gold over the rice fields.
The world was quiet.
Peaceful.
Kind.
I whispered to myself:
“There’s life after pain.”
Because there is.
There always is.
Every wrong deed has its consequence.
Every suffering has its limit.
And every person—no matter how broken—deserves another chance at life.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.
This was my chance.
My new beginning.
And for the first time in forever—
I embraced it.