I am Celia Ramirez, 34 years old, living in Quezon City.
Our marriage lasted almost eight years — it was the dream of my friends and neighbors. My husband, Marco Dela Cruz, is the head of the sales department of a large company in Makati. I am an ordinary accountant, who likes quiet and always tries to take care of the family.
But married life is not like the perfect picture that people see online.
It all started with a routine check-up at the Philippine General Hospital.
The doctor said to me softly:
“Miss Celia, we found a tumor. It is probably malignant. We need to biopsy it immediately.”
My world collapsed. I just hoped I had heard wrong.
That night, I sat alone in the small kitchen, looking at the wedding photo hanging on the wall — Marco was smiling brightly. I wanted to tell him, but my heart sank.
I was afraid that he would worry, but I was more afraid… that he would not care.
Within a few months, Marco had changed.
He came home late, often using work as an excuse. His phone was always on silent mode.
When I asked, he just shrugged:
“You’re too suspicious. I’m tired.”
The day I told him about the illness, Marco was silent for a few seconds, then said:
“Just treat it. I have a lot to worry about.”
No hugs, not a single word of encouragement.
That night, I lay quietly, my hand on my chest, wondering: “Why did I come this far?”
One night, my phone rang.
I heard Marco’s voice on the line, strange, mixed with a woman’s laughter:
“Celia, pick me up at Motel La Estrella on EDSA. I’m too tired to walk.”
I was stunned. I felt sad.
But I went anyway — not to save him, but to end it all.
It was raining heavily. When I got there, the neon lights were reflecting in the puddles.
And then he came out — his dress buttoned up, with a gorgeous young woman on his arm.
He laughed, looking me up and down:
“Oh, is this your wife?”
Marco smiled faintly:
“Your wife is so kind, always obedient.
I didn’t say anything. I just opened the car door.
At that moment, a black car pulled up next to us.
The middle-aged man who got out was… my legal representative, the lawyer Romualdo.
I took a stack of papers from my jacket pocket and handed them to Marco:
“This is the divorce agreement.” And…” — I took out my phone and opened the video of him and the woman having s.3.x at the bar a few nights ago.
The woman turned pale and let go of her hand.
Marco was stunned and stammered:
“Celia… you… you followed me?”
I said calmly:
“No. I just want the truth with witnesses.”
A few seconds later, Marco fell to his knees, right in the middle of the hotel entrance, in the pouring rain.
“I made a mistake… don’t do this to me, Celia. I’m begging you…”
Passersby began to stop. Some raised their phones to record the scene — the man who had once held his head high, now hunched over in a puddle.
I didn’t cry. I just said weakly:
“Have you forgotten? I have cancer, I’m not blind. I’m weak, but I’m not blind, nor stupid.”
I turned around, got in the car, closed the door, and left.
A week later, the divorce was finalized. I moved to live with my mother in Tagaytay, and continued with treatment.
The doctor said that fortunately the disease was detected early. I started therapy, meditation, and a healthy diet.
Once, an old colleague told me: Marco lost his job due to an internal scandal, his girlfriend left. He tried to contact me, but I had already changed my number.
I just smiled:
“If we are no longer together, that’s it. Whatever debt we have, we have paid in full.”
A year later, I was healthy again, my hair was longer, and my smile was different.
I worked as a part-time accountant for a charity that supports cancer patients in Pasig.
One night, while I was packing my papers, a young woman who was a patient asked me:
“Aunt Celia, are you afraid of dying?”
I smiled and gently stroked her hair:
“No.” Tita used to be more afraid of people who betrayed her. But now, she fears nothing — because Tita has learned to love herself.”
Epilogue – Light After the Storm
That night, I stood in front of the window, watching the city of Manila shine brightly.