I remember that rainy afternoon perfectly: I was evicted from what I once called “home” in Quezon City, carrying only a suitcase of clothes and a nearly dead phone.
My husband—who swore to “love me forever”—ruthlessly threw me out onto the street after my second miscarriage.
“I married you to have children, not to take care of someone who only knows how to cry,” he growled, and closed the door behind him. That slam was like a judgment.
I stood there, motionless in the rain. My parents died young, I had no siblings, and few relatives. My friends were busy with their own families. I took an overnight bus to escape the pain. I returned to Batangas, the humble town where I was born and which I had left years before. No one remembered the good student I had once been.
I rented a small room next to the market and lived from day to day: helping sell vegetables, cleaning, doing any job offered.
Then I met Tomas.
He was my age and worked as a construction worker for a small team near the market. Tall, tanned, quiet, but with an unusually tender gaze. That day, he stopped by the stall and asked me:
“Have you just returned to your province? There’s something strange yet familiar about you.”
I smiled without hesitation:
“Strange, yet familiar… because we’re both poor.”
Tomas laughed, a strange but genuine laugh. From then on, every evening after work, he would stop by to buy vegetables, even though he clearly didn’t need them.
One day it rained very hard, and the room I was renting started leaking from all sides. Tomas stopped, saw me huddled under the blanket, and said:
“Stay at my house for a few days. There are no leaks here. I live alone.”
I was confused, but so exhausted that I nodded. He was kind, respectful, and never crossed boundaries. We shared the same house, but didn’t share a bed. He cooked rice, saved what he could; I washed and hung out his clothes. It all happened naturally.
A week. Then two.
One afternoon, as I was clearing the table for dinner, he stopped and said:
“I know you’ve suffered… I have nothing: no house, no money… but if you don’t mind… will you marry me?”
I was in shock. Part of me wanted to refuse; my wounds were still unhealed; but another part longed for a real home. I nodded without thinking.
The wedding was simple, in the barangay hall: a few trays of food, some construction buddies. No white dress, no bouquet. I wore my mother’s old Filipiniana dress; the ring was a silver bracelet that Tomas cast himself.
After we were married, life was surprisingly simple. Tomas continued working, getting up early to make me rice and broth before heading to the construction site. I grew vegetables and sold them at the market. He never raised his voice, he didn’t drink, he didn’t gamble. When he came back at night, he just asked me:
“Have you eaten?”
“Are you sad?”
“Did someone hurt you?”
I began to feel valuable: not because I had children or not, but because someone considered me important.
Until one day, while cleaning the house, I found a wooden box hidden under the bed.
Curiosly, I opened it.
Inside were three land use certificates—all in the name of Tomas Reyes—and a fixed-term deposit ledger for over ₱1.8 million.
I was stunned. The worker who ate only dried fish with vegetables, who wore plastic sandals… owned three plots of land and had saved a large sum—and he never mentioned it.
Why hide it? Who was he really? And why did he marry me?
I put everything back in its place and couldn’t sleep all night. The questions kept coming: “Why did you hide it? Who are you? Did you approach me on purpose?”
The next morning, Tomas returned, his shirt sweaty, and I couldn’t help myself:
“Tomas… I’m sorry. I found something under the bed.”
He stopped and looked at me for a long time before sitting down. His voice was raspy, and his eyes were tired, without rancor:
“I knew this day would come. I didn’t want to hide it from you forever.”
I held my breath.
“I wasn’t as broke as you think. I was a construction engineer, had a small business, and my own house in Lipa. Four years ago, my wife… left me for another man, taking everything, even the house deeds. I was bankrupt and almost took my own l:i:fe.
My mother—who had the land deed—died and left me those properties.” I saved up the money for the term deposit by working on construction sites, riding a tricycle, gardening for a few coins… I lived frugally, not for lack of money, but to learn how to start over. I didn’t trust anyone, nor did I love anyone—until I met you.
He looked up, his voice soft:
“I saw in you someone fragile but resilient. I didn’t tell you the truth for fear you’d think I pitied you or that I was using my money to lure you away.”
“But… why marry me?” I whispered.
He laughed, sincerely:
“Because you never asked how much money I had. I just wanted a roof over my head, a meal, and someone who wouldn’t yell at me.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. After years of having no faith in marriage or men, this man—without grandiose promises—silently offered me the most precious thing he had.
From that moment on, there were no more secrets. He took me to a plot of land near a mangrove forest by the coast: he planned to build a wooden house with his own hands.
“I planned to live alone until I grew old. But now that you’re here… let’s build two rooms.”
I nodded—and for the first time, I felt chosen, not tolerated.
We dreamed of a future together: I grew organic vegetables, raised free-range chickens; Tomas designed a drip irrigation system, built small cabins, and brewed artisanal coffee to sell at the sari-sari store at the end of the road. The earth became a peaceful garden—with birds singing in the morning and the scent of coffee in the afternoon.
Three months later, the unthinkable happened: I was pregnant.
After two previous miscarriages, I thought I’d never be able to have children. But this time, with a man who never pressured me to have them, I received a gift I thought I’d forgotten.
Tomas hugged me, trembling:
“I don’t need children. You are already enough. But if God blesses us with one, it would be the most beautiful gift.”
I hugged him, tears streaming down my cheeks. For the first time, I understood: marriage is not a cage, it’s a home—a place you come and go to every day out of love.
Now, every morning I hear the creaking of wood, the crowing of the rooster, the whistling of my husband sweeping the yard. Life is still hard, but I’ve never felt so rich—rich in love, respect, and trust.
If I hadn’t been kicked out of the house, I might never have met Tomas Reyes. He chose to stay in the middle of the bustling Philippines, just to love me with the noblest thing he possesses.
