AnnaMaria
For eight quiet years, Maricel and Rodel Dela Cruz had what looked like an ordinary marriage. They were the kind of couple neighbors admired — hardworking, polite, the kind of people who waved from their car every Sunday morning on their way to church. From the outside, their life seemed simple and happy: a stable home in Quezon City, a bright little girl named Althea, and two careers that supported their modest dreams.
Maricel worked as an accountant for a private firm, known among her colleagues for her precision and calm demeanor. Rodel, a construction engineer, often traveled for projects, sometimes staying away for days at a time. Maricel trusted him completely. There was no reason not to. He kissed her before every trip, called her each night, and sent photos of his dinners abroad.
But all of that changed one humid Tuesday morning, when a single blue dot on a digital map shattered everything she thought she knew.
That morning, Rodel told her he had to fly to Singapore for a three-day business meeting with a foreign client. He seemed excited, even nervous — not unusual for an engineer who rarely traveled abroad. Maricel helped him pack, folding his shirts neatly and slipping a small note in his suitcase: Don’t forget to pray before you sleep. We love you.
Before leaving, he brushed a stray hair from her face and whispered, “Don’t worry, love. I’ll be back in three days. I love you.”
She smiled, kissed him goodbye, and watched his car disappear down the street.
That night, while clearing the dining table, she noticed his iPad resting beside a pile of receipts. He often left it at home, synced with his phone for work emails. Normally, she wouldn’t touch it — but she wanted to check his schedule and make sure he’d arrived safely. When she opened it, the familiar “Find My iPhone” icon blinked on the screen.
She tapped it. A small circle appeared on the map.
At first, she smiled, expecting to see it in Singapore — maybe near Changi Airport. But when the screen refreshed, her expression froze. The blinking blue dot wasn’t overseas. It wasn’t even near an airport. It was right in Manila.
More precisely, at the Philippine Women’s University Medical Center — a maternity hospital.
Maricel stared at the screen for nearly a minute, refreshing the page, hoping it was a glitch. But the dot didn’t move. Her heart raced. Her mind tried to rationalize — maybe he lost his phone, maybe someone else had it. But another part of her, the one that knew his habits and timing, whispered a different truth.
She sat in silence for a long time, then closed the iPad gently and took a deep breath.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply started documenting everything — the date, the time, the exact GPS coordinates, screenshots of his supposed “flight schedule.” She had always been a woman of order. Even in heartbreak, she sought precision.
The next morning, she called her old college friend Nina, who now worked as a nurse at that very hospital. Maricel’s voice was steady. “Nina, do me a favor. Tell me if you see anyone named Rodel Dela Cruz in your patient records. Or if he’s visiting anyone there.”
Hours later, the reply came through in a short text that made her blood run cold.
“I saw him,” Nina wrote. “He’s with a woman — about six months pregnant. He signed in as Dela Cruz, Rodel.”
Maricel stared at the message. Her hands shook, but her face stayed expressionless. Eight years of loyalty, of staying up late to balance their bills, of comforting him through career stress — all of it reduced to a lie.
But she wasn’t the kind of woman to explode. Instead, she did what she did best: she planned.
At work, she quietly began moving her shares in the firm to her mother’s name. As a co-owner, she had the authority to trigger an internal audit — something Rodel had never paid attention to. She knew exactly where their money sat, how their assets were registered, and how to legally secure every cent before he could touch it.
By the second day, the paperwork was done. She was no longer financially vulnerable.
When Rodel called that evening, his voice was light. “Hon, I might need to stay a bit longer. Some issues came up in Singapore.”
She smiled into the phone. “No problem, darling. Take your time.”
But the blue dot was still blinking in the same spot — the maternity hospital.
When he finally returned home three days later, he came bearing chocolates and a stuffed bear for Althea. He wrapped his arms around Maricel, acting as if nothing had changed. That night, she cooked sinigang na baboy, his favorite meal, and they ate together as a family.
After dinner, she placed a brown envelope on the table.
“What’s this?” he asked, laughing.
“Something for you,” she said quietly.
He opened it — and froze. Inside were screenshots of the GPS tracker, photos of him with the pregnant woman, and a printed copy of the sonogram labeled with his surname. Beneath it all lay the documents proving that every asset he once controlled — house, savings, shares — was now legally under her name alone.
Rodel’s face turned pale. “Maricel, please, I can explain—”
She stood slowly, meeting his eyes with calm precision. “Don’t. You’ve already lost — the company, the house, and me.”
That was the last real conversation they ever had as husband and wife.
A month later, she filed for annulment. Within weeks, Rodel’s company began to unravel. Once investors learned of the audit discrepancies — irregularities she had documented meticulously — they withdrew their funding. The business collapsed. Lawsuits followed. His accounts were frozen pending investigation.
Word spread fast in their professional circles. Rodel’s name became synonymous with failure.
The mistress, the woman from the hospital, gave birth early. When she realized Rodel was broke, she left him too.
Maricel never gloated. She didn’t post cryptic quotes online or share her story on social media. Instead, she quietly rebuilt her life with Althea.
She rented a small place in Tagaytay, where mornings were cool and peaceful. With her savings, she opened a café called Casa Althea, a cozy corner of calm where tourists stopped for coffee and homemade pastries.
Her daughter grew up surrounded by the aroma of espresso and the soft hum of conversation. “Mom,” Althea often said proudly, “you make everything better.”
When people asked Maricel how she found the strength not to explode, she always smiled and said, “Silence is the strongest weapon. It confuses those who expect your chaos.”
Three months later, as she was wiping tables one rainy afternoon, the café door opened.
Standing there, drenched and trembling, was Rodel.
He looked nothing like the man she’d married — thinner, older, eyes hollow with regret. “Maricel,” he said, voice breaking, “can we talk?”
She gestured for him to sit. He clasped the steaming cup she handed him as if it were the last warmth in his life.
“She left me,” he murmured. “I have nothing now. I want to say sorry… maybe start over. You were the only one who truly believed in me.”
Maricel looked at him for a long time. For a moment, she saw the man who once made her laugh in their tiny first apartment, the man who held their baby for the first time. But that man had died long ago — the night he’d chosen deceit.
“Start over?” she repeated softly. “The woman who waited for you died the day you lied.”
He lowered his eyes. The rain outside grew heavier, the café quieter.
“I forgive you,” she said finally. “But not to take you back. I forgive you so I can be free.”
He nodded weakly, tears spilling over. That was the last time she saw him — or so she thought.
Months later, Rodel came again, this time with a different request. He said he had a “new business plan” and needed financial help. Maricel listened politely, then took out her checkbook. She wrote a figure — then pulled the check back before he could touch it.
“You already took everything once,” she said quietly. “My trust, my peace, my time. Sorry, Rodel. The bank of Maricel Dela Cruz is closed forever.”
He said nothing, only bowed his head and left.
When she closed the door, she felt something lift — not joy, not vengeance, just peace. Life, she realized, has a way of collecting its own debts.
Weeks later, a letter arrived at her café. It was in Rodel’s handwriting.
“Maricel,” it began, “you’ll probably never read this. I’ve lost everything. When I look back, all I see is you — the only person who truly cared. I hope you’re happy. You deserve peace.”
She folded the letter, placed it in a drawer, and smiled faintly. No tears came. Just understanding. Some regrets, she thought, arrive too late — like guests knocking on an empty house.
Ten years passed.
Casa Althea expanded into three branches across Laguna, and Althea grew into a bright, confident teenager. People often said she had her mother’s calm strength and her father’s eyes — though she barely remembered him.
One afternoon, while stopped at a red light in Ortigas, Maricel saw him again. A middle-aged man with graying hair stood on the street corner, handing out flyers for construction work. For a moment, their eyes met. Recognition flickered between them — pain, memory, and quiet surrender.
She rolled down the window. “May you find peace, Rodel,” she said softly.
He nodded, tears glinting in the afternoon light, as her car pulled away.
That night, on the balcony of her Tagaytay home, Maricel sipped her coffee while Althea leaned against her shoulder.
“Mom,” the girl asked, “if Dad ever says sorry again, would you forgive him?”
Maricel smiled gently. “I already did, sweetheart. Forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you — so you can stop hurting.”
Althea looked up, eyes shining. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”
Maricel gazed into the fog-draped sky, the scent of roasted beans drifting from the kitchen. She thought of the woman she used to be — the one who believed love could fix everything.
That woman was gone.
In her place stood someone stronger, freer, and untouchable.
Sometimes, Maricel realized, the best revenge isn’t revenge at all. It’s simply living a life so peaceful, so full, that the people who once betrayed you can only watch and remember —
They lost the only true love they would ever have.
