AnnaMaria
When Marco and I got married in 2018, in a quiet coastal town in Batangas, life was simple but full of dreams. We didn’t have gold or a grand reception, only a few close friends, the sound of the ocean, and a promise whispered in the middle of that humid evening — a promise that would later haunt me.
“I’ll work in Japan,” Marco said, holding my hands tightly. “I’ll save enough money for us to open a small shop. Our son will go to school. You’ll never have to worry again.”
That night, I believed him. I believed him so much that I borrowed half a million pesos to make his dream possible. I went from one friend to another, from one lender to the next, begging and signing papers I didn’t fully understand. My parents’ small wooden house at the entrance of our village was mortgaged. Every peso I gathered was for him — for our future.
When he finally left for Japan, I stood at the airport carrying our three-year-old son. My heart ached as I watched him disappear beyond the security gate. I tried to smile through tears, whispering to my little boy, “Papa will come back soon.”
For a while, he kept his word. Every month, like clockwork, he sent money. Twenty thousand pesos, enough to pay part of the debt and keep food on the table. His calls were short but filled with affection. “How’s our little one? Did you fix the roof? Don’t worry, I’m working hard,” he’d say. I held on to every word as though it were gold.
But slowly, the messages became shorter, the calls less frequent. One month, he sent half the usual amount, saying his hours were cut. Then another letter came, his handwriting slightly messier, his tone heavier.
“Work has been hard lately. Please be patient. I’ll send less for now.”
I didn’t question it. I loved him. I told myself that distance made everything harder, that he was struggling, not abandoning us.
But the truth began to show itself in silence.
By 2022, his remittances were irregular. In the entire year, he sent only 30,000 pesos. In 2023, just 10,000. And in 2024, nothing. Not a call. Not a single message. His social media went dark, his phone unreachable.
At night, when the house was quiet, I would hold my son close, staring at the empty space beside me where Marco once slept. My son, now seven, would sometimes look at me and ask, “Mom, when is Papa coming home?”
I’d turn away, smile faintly, and whisper, “Soon, sweetheart.” But inside, my chest burned with fear and resentment.
When months turned into nearly a year without contact, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. I saved every peso I could, sold some jewelry, borrowed a little more, and planned a trip to Japan. I wanted to find him — to make sure he was alive, to know what went wrong.
On the morning of my flight, I woke before dawn. The air was heavy and quiet. I packed our old family photo into my suitcase — the one of us at the beach, Marco carrying our son on his shoulders — and whispered a small prayer.
As I was locking the front door, I heard a knock. A delivery man stood outside, holding a small box wrapped neatly in brown paper.
“From Japan,” he said. “Your husband sent this.”
My heart leaped. After so long — a sign, a message, maybe an apology. I thanked the man and hurried inside, my hands trembling as I cut open the tape.
Inside was a small black box. My breath caught. No letter. No note. Just a ring — Marco’s wedding ring — and a photo.
In the photo, Marco stood in a garden of cherry blossoms, wearing a suit. Beside him, a Japanese woman in a white gown smiled, holding his hand. They looked happy — radiant even.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t move. My body felt numb. My throat closed as my eyes filled with tears. Then I saw the engraving inside the ring: M.L ♥ M.A. 2018. The same ring I had placed on his hand on our wedding day.
Now it sat in a box, cold and lifeless — the final goodbye he never had the courage to say.
I collapsed on the floor, clutching the photo to my chest. “Why, Marco? Why did you do this to us?”
My son came running, his tiny hands wrapping around my neck. “Mom, did Papa send us a gift? When will he come home?”
I bit my lip so hard it bled. I forced a smile through tears. “Yes, sweetheart. Papa sent us something. But… he can’t come home right now.”
That day, I never made it to the airport. The ticket stayed in my jacket pocket, unused. I stared at the suitcase by the door for hours, as if expecting him to suddenly walk in and explain everything. But the truth was clear — he wasn’t coming back.
A few days later, one of Marco’s old coworkers visited from Japan. He stood quietly at my doorstep, avoiding my eyes.
“He’s still in Osaka,” the man said finally. “He married a Japanese woman. He said… you shouldn’t wait anymore.”
The words felt like a blade cutting through my chest. For a moment, everything around me went silent — the birds, the waves, even my own heartbeat.
That night, I took off my own wedding ring. I sold it, along with his, to pay off part of the debt. Then I packed up what little we had and took my son to my mother’s home in Ilocos Norte.
Life started again, slowly and painfully. I learned to wake up without checking my phone for his messages. I learned to fix the roof, to carry sacks of rice, to budget every peso.
But every night, as my son lay beside me, he’d still ask the same question.
“Mom, does Papa still love me?”
I’d stroke his hair, forcing a small smile, whispering, “Yes, baby. Papa loves you. He’s just far away.”
He’d close his eyes and drift to sleep, and I’d sit in the dark, letting the tears fall quietly.
Sometimes, I looked out the window at the ocean, the same ocean that once carried his promises across the world. The wind would blow through the open window, brushing against my skin, and I’d whisper to myself, “If he chose to leave, I choose to live.”
And I meant it.
I found work in a small shop selling household goods. It didn’t pay much, but it was enough to keep us fed. The neighbors who once pitied me began to admire my strength. They said, “You’re doing so well, you’re so strong.” They didn’t know how many nights I had spent crying silently, wishing I could erase the memory of that photo.
But strength isn’t about not crying. It’s about standing up again when the tears stop.
Over time, I began to heal. I realized that love, no matter how deep, cannot survive on one person’s faith alone. It needs truth, presence, and respect — the things Marco chose to abandon.
My son is older now. He no longer asks about his father as often. Sometimes, when he sees couples at the market, he holds my hand tighter. And I hold his back, because I know that even though his father left, I am still here.
There are nights when I still dream of the past — our wedding, his smile, the moment he promised to build a better life. But when I wake up, I remind myself that dreams are only echoes. What matters is the life I have now, the boy sleeping peacefully beside me, the woman I have become — stronger, wiser, and unbroken.
And sometimes, when I see cherry blossoms on TV or in a magazine, I feel a small ache, but not anger anymore. Just a quiet acceptance that life goes on — that betrayal may wound us deeply, but it cannot destroy us.
Because in the end, love doesn’t always mean staying. Sometimes, it means surviving — choosing to live for yourself and for those who still need you.
And that’s what I’ve done. I live, I breathe, I raise my child, and I never look back.
