Category Archives: Unfaithful
The Hardest Choice
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 7)
Two days later, Kath asked that we not speak over the weekend. Her church had an important Sunday activity, and she needed time alone to think.
I gave her the silence she asked for, but filled it with visions of the life I believed we would finally claim. By then, I understood that Jay was not the greatest obstacle between us. Something far more powerful had already begun calling her back.
Kath called on Sunday night. Her eyes were swollen.
Her laptop was on the study table again, not on the bed. The change was small but deliberate. She had moved our conversation away from the place where we had surrendered to desire, as though furniture and distance could help her recover the boundary we had erased.
“I’m not all right,” she said. “The sermon struck me again.”
She told me that every service since our affair became serious had felt directed at her. Every time we undressed for each other, every time she chose my call over Jay’s, she felt the distance between her desire and her faith widening.
Her Christianity was not a convenient device she discovered at the end of our affair. It had shaped the marriage she chose to repair, the community in which she served, and the understanding of herself she wanted to preserve. Loving me had not erased those commitments. It had divided her against them.
“Doesn’t what we’re doing trouble you?” she asked.
I believed in God, though I was not devout in the way she was. I had asked for forgiveness and understanding, but desire had thrown my conscience aside. All I wanted was Kath.
“We love each other,” I said. “That is what matters.”
“Stop using love to make this right. It isn’t right. Are we supposed to live permanently in sin?”
“Would it be less sinful to remain with people we do not love?”
Kath wiped her eyes. “You keep speaking as if Anna and Jay are merely mistakes standing between two rightful lovers. They are people, Marco. We made promises to them. Our children did not choose this. Love does not make them disappear.”
I had no answer that did not return to what I wanted.
Even as I said it, I heard the convenience in my reasoning.
“It has to end,” she said. “Before Jay, Anna, or anyone else discovers us.”
“Kath—”
“I am not choosing between you and Jay. I am choosing between what is right and what is wrong.”
The sentence was not a denial of her feelings. That was why it hurt. If she had stopped loving me, I could have blamed time or distance. Instead, she was refusing precisely because the love remained powerful enough to destroy what she believed she was called to protect.
There it was: the rival I could not charm, outwait, or defeat.
“We can still be friends,” she continued. “We can exchange messages occasionally, but no more calls.”
“Let me call sometimes.”
“We both know what will happen. If you call, I will block you. If you use your phone, I will block your number. Please help me do this. I have grown used to your presence, and you know how weak I am when it comes to you.”
I had pushed against every boundary she had drawn because I believed persistence was proof of love. Now the only loving act left to me was the one I least wanted to perform: allow the boundary to remain.
“Jay will call soon,” she said. “I asked him to. Instead of talking to you, I should be talking to my husband.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
“Is there anything else you want to say?”
I shook my head.
“Then let me say this one last time. I love you, Marco. But I have to learn to forget you. I hope you understand why.”
“I love you too, Kath.”
“Goodbye. Please try to love Anna. I wish both of you well.”
The screen went dark.
For several minutes, my own reflection remained on the screen. The apartment was unchanged: the cup beside me, the winter lights outside, the empty room waiting for another film or another sleepless night. Yet the space felt altered because I had allowed Kath’s presence to occupy it so completely.
I thought of Anna, who had forgiven betrayals I would have struggled to forgive and still remembered to ask whether I had eaten. I thought of Kenneth, whose failure to answer my call I had dismissed so easily, without considering how much of his life I had already missed. I thought of Jay at sea, trusting that his wife would be there when he called. For the first time since Kath’s birthday, I understood that what we had called our private story had never belonged only to us. We had made it private by pushing everyone else beyond its borders, even though they would have borne the consequences of every choice we made.
I had spent all that time thinking of Jay as my rival. But I had not lost Kath to him. In the end, she had not chosen one man over another.
She had chosen her faith—and the person she still wanted to be.
It was difficult to compete with God.
Against Him, I never had a chance.
Perhaps Kath had been right all along.
Perhaps we were never meant to be.
— END —
Beyond the Screen
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 6)
After that, we spoke almost every night. If our affair were a voyage, we had sailed so far from shore that neither of us could see where we had begun—or decide whether we still wanted to return.
Our conversations developed rituals. I messaged first to ask whether the children were asleep. She checked whether Anna might call. We used earphones, lowered our voices, and deleted exchanges that could expose us. Secrecy itself became intimacy: every precaution reminded us that there was an us important enough to hide.
One evening, Kath returned to the claim she had never completely believed.
“You still expect me to believe that you lived without sex for eight years?”
“I already told you. I never paid anyone, and I never found a girlfriend.”
“Not even once?”
“Not even once.”
“Then how did you manage?”
“A selfie,” I said, making her laugh. “Twice a week. I tell myself regular release is good for a man’s health.”
“Do you need stimulation?”
I admitted to visiting adult websites.
“Disgusting,” she said, although she was still laughing.
“They would become unnecessary if I had something better to look at.”
Her laughter disappeared. “Don’t start, Marco.”
“I haven’t started anything.”
“Your voice changes whenever you want something.”
“And you recognize it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Then I asked whether she ever touched herself.
“No. Jay and I once tried doing something online when he first returned to sea, but it didn’t work for me. We never tried again.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t the distance.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it was the person on the other side of the screen.”
She stared at me without answering.
The conversation changed the air between us. Her teasing smile faded, but she did not look away. I heard her breathing through my earphones, each quiet breath making the thousands of kilometers between us seem less real.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I feel like taking a selfie.”
She understood. “Then take one.”
“I need inspiration.”
“Visit one of your disgusting websites.”
“I would rather look at you.”
Silence.
I removed my shirt first. Beneath it, I was wearing a white undershirt. Kath shook her head, but the faint smile at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
“You are shameless.”
“Your turn.”
“No.”
“Then why haven’t you ended the call?”
She could have. Her finger hovered near the touchpad, and for several seconds I believed she would make the choice neither of us had been strong enough to make. Instead, she leaned back.
Her hand moved slowly over her chest, almost unconsciously at first, then stopped when she realized I was watching.
“Marco, what is happening to me?”
“Nothing you don’t want.”
“Don’t pretend you know what I want.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
“I have been telling you that from the beginning.”
The answer should have ended everything. Instead, neither of us moved.
“Please,” I whispered.
Kath closed her eyes. When she opened them again, fear and desire occupied the same expression.
“Why are you so difficult to resist?”
She carried the laptop to her bed. I did the same. Before setting it down, she changed into a thin undershirt and returned beneath the sheet.
“This is all you are going to see,” she warned.
“For now.”
“Don’t push me.”
But she remained.
The two rooms, thousands of kilometers apart, became one private space of restrained movements, uneven breathing, exposed shoulders, and whispered names. We watched each other without touching, yet every movement seemed answered by another on the opposite side of the screen.
Kath hesitated several times. Each pause gave us an opportunity to stop; each time, I asked her whether she wanted to continue. Sometimes she said no while remaining in front of the camera. Once she covered herself completely, and I thought the moment had ended. Then her face reappeared.
When she finally chose to continue, the surrender was mutual, but it was not free of pressure, guilt, or fear. The screen protected us from physical touch while permitting us to pretend that what happened through it was somehow less real.
That night, we crossed the boundary Kath had refused to cross eight years earlier.
It was not the last time. Soon, many of our late-night calls ended the same way. We began our conversations sitting at desks and finished them in bed. What we called friendship had become impossible to defend, even to ourselves.
Afterward, Kath sometimes covered herself quickly and avoided my eyes. At other times she laughed with the shy happiness of the younger woman I remembered. I preferred those moments. Her guilt threatened the future I was constructing, so I answered it with assurances: no one had forced us, our marriages were already incomplete, and love could not be evil simply because it arrived at the wrong time. The arguments comforted me because they began with the conclusion I wanted.
Yet the more we possessed of one another through our screens, the less sufficient the screen became. I wanted to return to the Philippines. I wanted to hold her without glass, pixels, or distance between us.
One night, Kath asked, “What exactly do you intend to do about us?”
I had waited for that question.
“First, answer something. Whom do you love more—Jay or me?”
“That is a ridiculous question.”
“Why?”
“Do you remember the crisis Jay and I went through before you left for Korea?”
I nodded.
“You were the reason. I told him everything about us. He asked whom I loved more, and I answered honestly: you. He threatened to leave me. That was why I came to you that day. I expected warmth, some sign that you still wanted me. Instead, you advised me to reconcile with him. You pushed me back into his arms.”
Her revelation rearranged eight years of memory. I had believed Kath chose Jay because she loved him more or because what existed between us had been insignificant to her. Now I learned that she had once approached me on the edge of choosing—and I, absorbed by my own crisis, had failed to recognize it. The lost possibility became more intoxicating than any future we could realistically build.
Had I known, I thought, I might never have boarded the plane to Korea.
“When Jay apologized and promised to help me forget you, I accepted. But did he erase you? Look at me, Marco. I talk to you instead of him. I want to see you all the time. You ask whom I love more?”
“I understand.”
“No. Say it.”
“You love me more.”
“You fool. You are the only man I love. I needed Jay because you were not there. I was learning to love him. Then you returned.”
She began to cry.
“Perhaps we decide whether we are meant to be,” I said. “Leave Jay. I will leave Anna. Come with me.”
Kath lifted her tear-streaked face.
“And my children?”
“I will accept them as my own.”
We discussed separation, secrecy, scandal, custody, and sacrifice. She had far more to lose than I did, but I was confident she would choose me.
I proposed that we keep our relationship hidden even after separating from our spouses. If Jay discovered that I was the reason Kath left, he might fight for custody or prevent the children from seeing her. Anna would have to face another betrayal, Kenneth would have to understand why his parents’ marriage ended, and both families would endure gossip and anger. I spoke of these consequences as obstacles we could manage, not wounds other people would suffer.
Kath listened, but the practical future made her quieter than the romantic one. It was easy to say she would leave everything for love while we were safely separated by thousands of kilometers. It was harder to imagine telling her children that the man on her laptop would replace the father they knew.
“Give me time,” she said. “I love you, but I don’t know what to do.”
I heard only the words I wanted to hear: I love you. I treated everything that followed as uncertainty time would eventually overcome.
PART 7 – The Hardest Choice
The Line Between Us
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 4)
Two days later, I opened Kath’s profile again. I looked through her photographs until restraint felt more dishonest than desire.
That was the explanation I gave myself: restraint was dishonesty. I did not call my silence respect for her boundary or loyalty to my wife. I called it denial. By changing the name of the act, I made surrender sound courageous.
“Hello, Kath. Busy?”
“Not really. Just reading to kill time.”
“Can I call?”
“Why? Didn’t we discuss everything two nights ago?”
“Please. Just for a few minutes.”
“Why, Marco?”
I told her the truth. “I miss you. I only want to see you again.”
The message remained marked Seen for several minutes. Then she called me.
“Thank you,” I said as her face appeared.
“Don’t thank me. You are still impossible to refuse.”
She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts. When she noticed where my gaze had settled, she adjusted the camera.
“I’m looking at your face,” I protested.
“Of course you are.”
I asked whether she missed me. She tried to evade the question, then surrendered.
“Yes. I miss you too. Are you happy now?”
“Very.”
Her expression grew serious. “Let me make something clear. We are both married. We both have children. I am talking to you because we are friends and because we shared a past. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Loud and clear.”
She told me it would be our last video call. I asked for one call a week. She refused, and I knew—or convinced myself—that she would answer the next time anyway.
When she mentioned that Jay might not return until the following year, I asked when she expected me to visit the Philippines.
“You must miss Anna,” she said.
“I miss everyone I love.”
“Including your wife?”
“Why do you always bring her into our conversation?”
“Who should I mention—Mayette?”
Her teasing turned coarse. She asked whether I missed the sex I had had with Mayette. Irritated, I blurted out that I had not slept with anyone in Korea—not once in eight years.
She laughed. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Marco, you have needs. Are you telling me that in eight years, you never once paid a woman there for one night of sex?”
“Never.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I would never pay a woman for sex.”
“And why should I believe that?”
“Because if I ever sleep with a woman, I want it to happen because we both want it—not because I paid her. There should be desire on both sides and something real between us, even if neither of us knows where it will lead.”
Kath gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “That sounds very principled for someone with your history.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Where was all that concern about what a woman wanted when you kissed me in your office and then—”
She stopped, leaving the rest suspended between us.
“And afterward?” she continued. “When you went home to Anna, did you kiss her too?”
“Kath—”
“Did you hold her the way you had just held me? Did you tell her you loved her?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not. It never is when you are the one explaining it.”
I could have reminded her that I stopped when she pulled away. I could have insisted that what happened between us had never been entirely one-sided. But neither answer would erase the truth beneath her questions: I had wanted honesty from her while living dishonestly with both women.
“Believe whatever you want.”
“And Anna? What happens when you go home?”
I told her that Anna and I had not had sex since Kenneth was born. Diabetes had diminished her desire, and intercourse had become painful for her. We did not even share a bedroom during my visits.
“I’m sorry,” Kath said quietly.
“We found an arrangement that preserves our marriage and gives both of us peace.”
The arrangement was difficult to explain. Anna and I had forgiven many things without becoming truly compatible. The distance created by my work in Korea had probably saved us from the daily disagreements that once exhausted us.
Kenneth gave us another reason to remain a family, although I rarely admitted how much of the emotional labor of raising him Anna carried while I lived abroad. I called from Korea, sent money, came home when my schedule allowed, and told myself that provision was presence. The unanswered video call earlier that evening should have reminded me of the distance between my son and me. Instead, I had spent the night trying to erase the distance between Kath and me.
“Then why stay?” Kath asked.
“What else should I have done—find another Mayette?”
“I don’t know.”
“In Korea, I finally understood who I should have married. If I ever begin another relationship, I want it with only one person. If I cannot have her, I would rather have no one.”
The declaration sounded noble in my own ears. It converted years of infidelity into evidence of constancy: I had betrayed Anna with other women, yet because none of them mattered as Kath did, I could still imagine myself faithful to one great love. I did not ask whether devotion to an idealized woman could excuse disloyalty to the real woman I had married.
Kath turned partly away. “Who is she?”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
PART 5 – It Has Always Been You
What We Left Unsaid
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 2)
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
“You can refuse to answer.”
“Why are you asking?”
Why was I? What difference would the answer make now? What if she admitted that she had loved me—or that she still did?
“Because there are things we never clarified,” I said. “Every time we met after you resigned, we avoided them. Maybe we were afraid. Maybe we knew nothing good could come from talking about them.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” I added. “Perhaps I only imagined that something important had happened between us.”
“What was your question again?”
“Did you really love me?”
“Of course I do—I mean, I did. Did.”
I could not suppress a smile.
“What are you grinning at?”
“So it’s did, not do.”
“You heard me.”
“Meaning you don’t love me anymore?”
“You are unbelievable, Marco. Some questions are better left unanswered.”
I let the silence answer for her.
“I’m happy when I see photographs of you and Anna,” she said. “You look happy together.”
“So you check my Facebook page.”
“Don’t you check mine?”
I admitted that I did. Then I asked what she had wanted to ask me.
“You already know,” she said. “But I want an honest answer.”
“Which question—did I love you then, or do I still love you now?”
She smiled. “Both.”
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
She laughed at hearing her own words returned to her.
“I loved you then, Kath.”
“And now?”
“Some questions are better left unanswered.”
“I can read between the lines, Marco.”
“So can I.”
When she left briefly to use the bathroom, memories crowded into the silence. We had once spent nearly every working day together. At first, while she was my intern, we had been strictly professional. Then our conversations became personal. I told her about my difficulties with Anna; she told me about Jay, who was then still courting her.
One night, while we were working overtime, I held her hand and kissed her. The kiss lasted longer than either of us could excuse. After that, affection became part of our secret routine. Sometimes a kiss welcomed one of us into the office. Sometimes I whispered that I missed her or loved her. At night, behind a closed door, we kissed until restraint was the only thing keeping us from going further.
Kath never allowed us to cross that final boundary. She never once said she loved me. And because Anna worked in the next office, we made certain no colleague noticed anything unusual.
Kath returned to the call and settled on a sofa. She wore shorts and a thin shirt, and when she reclined I had to remind myself not to stare.
The years had altered her less than I expected. There were faint lines around her eyes now, but they made her beauty feel lived in rather than diminished. She had become a mother, a wife, and a woman who spoke with greater certainty than the young intern I remembered. Yet when she smiled at something foolish I said, I could still see the twenty-something woman who used to enter my office carrying two cups of coffee and pretend not to notice that I had been waiting for her.
The memory pleased me, but it also carried a fact I preferred not to examine: back then I had been her supervisor. My recommendation had helped determine whether she would be hired. I had told myself that her affection was freely given—and perhaps it was—but I had never asked what my authority might have meant to a young woman beginning her career. It was easier to remember the kisses than the imbalance surrounding them.
“Careful, Marco. Your eyes might fall out.”
“You’ve attracted me for a long time.”
“There goes the charmer again.”
“You’re still very attractive.”
“I know.”
We laughed, but the ease did not last.
“I have another question,” she said. “Do you know someone named Mayette?”
PART 3 – THE TRUTH ABOUT THEM
Helen Or Penelope?
When Troy was released in 2004, I watched it. The literature teacher in me could not bear the thought of missing it.
Afterward, I anticipated that one of Hollywood’s major studios would eventually give The Odyssey the same grand cinematic treatment. I imagined vast seas, legendary creatures, powerful gods, and the long, perilous journey of Odysseus brought spectacularly to the screen. But year after year, that film did not come. Several screen productions drew inspiration from Homer’s epic, but none matched the scale I had envisioned.
Finally, twenty-two years later—a wait two years longer than Odysseus’s total twenty-year absence from Ithaca—a big-budget, star-studded film based on Homer’s Odyssey arrived.
And once again, the literature teacher in me could not bear to miss it.
Like many literary classics adapted for the screen, I did not expect either Troy or The Odyssey to reproduce Homer’s epic poems faithfully and completely. Modern English translations of each work run to hundreds of pages. In bringing them to the screen, filmmakers must condense events, combine characters, and reshape parts of the story according to the demands of modern cinema.
Nevertheless, I still wish the scriptwriters of Troy had not killed Agamemnon and Menelaus on Trojan soil. In Homer’s story, both survived the war. Agamemnon was killed only after returning home, while Menelaus eventually returned to Sparta with Helen. As a teacher of Greek mythology, I could understand the filmmakers’ need for dramatic changes, but the literature teacher in me could not help protesting quietly.
When Queen Penelope first appeared on the screen in The Odyssey, I was reminded of one of my favorite questions for students attending my Greek Mythology class:
Who would you rather have as a girlfriend or wife—Helen of Troy or Queen Penelope? Why?
If I were answering my own question today, I would choose Penelope.
I would not choose Penelope merely to condemn Helen, but neither would I remove all personal responsibility from her. In versions in which she willingly left Sparta with Paris, Helen was an adult capable of exercising free will. She made a choice—to leave her husband, child, and homeland—and choices carry consequences. The influence of Paris and the intervention of Aphrodite may help explain her decision, but they do not necessarily erase her agency.
At the same time, personal responsibility should not be confused with sole responsibility. Helen did not command the armies or decide that powerful kings and warriors would continue fighting for ten years. Paris, the Greek and Trojan leaders, the warriors, and even the gods all played their parts. Helen may bear responsibility for her own decision, but she cannot carry the moral burden of every death that followed.
My choice of Penelope, therefore, rests not merely on what Helen did but, more importantly, on what Penelope consistently chose to do. Physical beauty has value, but a life partner must possess qualities far more enduring than beauty.
Penelope was faithful, certainly, but she was also intelligent, patient, resilient, and discerning. She did not merely sit and wait helplessly for Odysseus. She protected her household through her ingenuity, weaving during the day and secretly undoing her work at night to delay the suitors. Even when Odysseus finally returned, she did not allow emotion to overpower her judgment. She tested him through the secret of their marriage bed before accepting that the stranger standing before her was truly her husband.
Her love was steadfast, but it was never foolish.
More importantly, Penelope was Odysseus’s intellectual equal. Both possessed metis—the cunning, strategic intelligence that enables a person to survive through wisdom rather than physical strength alone. Odysseus used his metis to overcome the dangers he encountered during his journey. Penelope used the same quality to preserve their household, protect their family, and resist the men who sought to take Odysseus’s place.
While Odysseus was fighting his way home across hostile seas, Penelope was fighting a quieter battle within the walls of Ithaca. His struggle was outward and physical; hers was inward, domestic, and political. Yet both endured through patience, restraint, and intelligence. Even her final test involving their marriage bed was an encounter between two perceptive minds: a question that only the real Odysseus could answer and a secret that only the two of them shared. Penelope was therefore not simply the woman waiting for the hero. She was his true partner—someone capable of meeting him as an equal.
Perhaps when we are young, we are more easily captivated by Helen—her extraordinary beauty, the admiration she inspired, and the drama surrounding her. As we grow older, however, we begin to recognize Penelope’s quieter greatness: not the power to attract countless men, but the strength to remain true during twenty years of uncertainty; not beauty that begins a story, but character that keeps it from ending.
So, my answer is Penelope.
Yet perhaps the better question is not simply, “Which woman would I choose?” The question must also turn toward me:
“Am I becoming the kind of man who would be worthy of a Penelope?”
It is easy to desire beauty, loyalty, intelligence, patience, and strength in another person. The harder and more honest task is to cultivate those same qualities within ourselves. We should not merely look for someone worth coming home to; we must also become someone worth waiting for—and someone worthy of being welcomed home.
Gertrude (1)
(SHORT STORY – 1st of 2 Parts)
Gertrude had already been with the company long before I arrived.
I did not notice her immediately. Not because she was easy to miss—but because she did not need to be seen to be felt.
There are people who enter a room and demand attention. Gertrude did something else.
She let the room rearrange itself around her.
Conversations would slow. Voices softened. Even laughter seemed… measured, as if it needed her permission to exist fully.
And when she moved, you did not look at her right away.
You felt that you should.
She was the executive secretary—efficient, precise, and quietly authoritative.
She did not raise her voice. She did not need to.
When she spoke, people listened.
I did.
__________
Our interactions began with something simple.
Work.
Or at least, something that looked like work.
She would come to my cubicle carrying folders that were, technically, hers to handle.
“Can you help me with this?” she would ask.
The first time, I said yes without thinking.
The softness of her palm lingered—
just enough to make refusal feel unlikely the next time.
The second time, I noticed how close she stood.
I felt her breath—warm, near—
close enough to unsettle,
and the quiet trace of her scent
that lingered longer than it should have.
For a moment, her body brushed against mine—
light, unintentional… or so I told myself.
Just enough to linger in a way I could not ignore.
The third time, I realized she always came when I was alone.
Not deliberately.
Just… consistently.
__________
There are details the mind chooses to keep.
The faint scent of her perfume—light, almost forgettable, yet impossible to ignore once noticed.
The way she paused before speaking, as if selecting not just words, but their effect.
The way her eyes lingered—not long enough to accuse, but long enough to stay.
And then, the smallest gestures.
A hand resting briefly on my desk.
A brush against my shoulder.
A smile that arrived slowly, as if it had been waiting its turn.
__________
There was nothing inappropriate.
Nothing I could point to and say this was where it began.
And yet… something had already begun.
__________
I started noticing the absences.
The days she did not come to my cubicle stretched longer than they should have.
Work felt heavier. The air—still.
I would find myself listening for her voice.
Not consciously.
But persistently.
__________
It was around that time that I noticed something else.
The other men in the office kept their distance.
Not openly. Not dramatically.
Just enough.
They spoke to her when necessary, but never lingered. Never laughed too long. Never stood too close.
Some avoided her entirely.
At first, I thought it was envy.
Later, I wondered if it was something else.
But by then, I had already chosen not to wonder too deeply.
Because whenever she stood beside me…
everything made sense.
__________
I invited her to dinner.
I expected hesitation. A polite refusal.
I was wrong.
She said yes.
Immediately.
I let myself believe she liked me.
That should have been a warning.
I did not stop to wonder
how easily she might say yes to someone else.
__________
In my apartment, she moved with quiet familiarity.
Opening cabinets. Touching objects as if she were memorizing them—or claiming them.
“I’ll cook,” she said.
I protested, lightly. Out of courtesy, not conviction.
She smiled—just enough—and guided me to the sofa.
“Sit.”
It wasn’t a request.
And strangely… I obeyed.
__________
From the living room, I listened to her in the kitchen.
The rhythm of movement. The soft clatter of utensils. The occasional pause—as if she were thinking of something else entirely.
Once, I thought she had stopped moving altogether.
I almost stood up to check.
Then the sound returned.
It felt intimate.
Too intimate for something that had only just begun.
And yet, I did not question it.
__________
We talked over dinner.
About her family. Her past. Her disappointments.
She spoke freely.
But not deeply.
There were spaces in her stories—small gaps where something should have been.
I noticed them.
I chose not to ask.
At one point, I reached for my phone—out of habit more than intention.
“Do you want to exchange numbers?” I asked.
She paused.
Not long. Just enough to be noticed.
“I don’t have one,” she said.
I looked at her, waiting for the rest of the sentence.
It didn’t come.
“No cellphone?”
She shook her head lightly, as if the question itself did not deserve much thought.
“I don’t like being… reachable all the time.”
There was something in the way she said it—
not defensive, not apologetic—
just… final.
I let it pass.
Like the other things I had already chosen not to question.
__________
Later, she opened a bottle of brandy.
“I don’t drink much,” I said.
“Then I will,” she replied.
And she did.
Effortlessly.
The more she drank, the more she seemed… not intoxicated—but unguarded.
Her eyes softened—but never lost their sharpness.
At some point, I moved closer.
Or maybe she allowed me to think I did.
I reached for her hand.
It was warm.
Real.
Before I could speak, she turned and kissed me.
Not gently.
Not hesitantly.
But with certainty.
The kiss lingered—
longer than it should have.
And when it deepened,
neither of us tried to stop it.
__________
What followed was no longer hesitation—
but desire,
finally given permission.
She did not pull away.
And neither did I.
And I saw no reason to.
The space between us disappeared—
slowly at first,
then all at once.
Her warmth,
her breath—
the quiet urgency in the way she held on—
all of it unfolded without resistance.
And whatever distance had existed before that moment…
was gone.
There are moments in life that feel like decisions.
And others that feel like surrender.
That was surrender.
Morning came.
She was gone.
No note. No message. No explanation.
Just absence.
At the office, I waited—more than I should have, more than I admitted.
Every sound from the door pulled my attention away from my work. Every passing shadow felt like it might become her.
When she finally appeared, she smiled.
And said nothing.
I did not ask.
The warnings came later.
Two officemates. Hesitant at first. Then certain.
They spoke of her as if she were something to be avoided.
Something already understood.
Their words were sharp. Accusatory.
Ugly.
I dismissed them.
Not because they lacked truth.
But because I was not ready for it.
That night, she came back to my apartment.
Unannounced.
“I missed you… I need you.”
She said it softly—almost like a confession.
I felt something in me give in too easily.
And whatever doubt had tried to take root… disappeared again.
She was there when I woke up.
Seated beside me.
Quiet.
I reached for her hand and held it gently.
She looked at me.
Something in her eyes had changed.
The warmth I had grown used to… was not there.
I felt it immediately—though I could not name it.
She hesitated, as if holding back something she had already decided to say.
I waited.
When The Rain Falls (2)
Chapter 2 – “The Plot Thickens”
As we reached Elena’s house, the door swung open, revealing her mother waiting with a wave and a bright smile.
“Wow, you’re soaked! Go to the bathroom and freshen up. I’ll make coffee for you and Elena.”
Elena’s mom was super welcoming. Needless to say, I felt incredibly welcome. But I felt another thing – guilt. The memory of what happened in the hut played repeatedly, starkly contrasting the unwavering kindness being showered upon me.
My hand trembled slightly as I reached for Elena’s mother’s right hand. Gently, I placed it on my forehead, a gesture of deep gratitude that transcended words. “Thank you,” I mumbled, the words barely a whisper against the rising tide of guilt.
“Mom, aren’t you lucky to have such a respectful future son-in-law?”
Elena’s mother just smiled as I let go of her hand.
“Shut up, Mommy,” I told Elena jokingly as I walked towards the bathroom.
Elena’s laughter erupted upon hearing me, followed by her mom’s in a delightful cascade that filled the room.
Before I could shut the bathroom door completely, the voices of Elena and her mom drifted through…
“Someone’s in your room.”
“Who, Mom?”
“Camille.”
The name froze me in my tracks. A mix of surprise and excitement rushed through me. Unable to resist the pull of curiosity, I left the bathroom door slightly ajar, hoping to hear more from them.
“You both arrived almost at the same time. Oh, your sister-in-law didn’t bring an umbrella, so she was soaking wet when she arrived. I lent her some of your clothes. She probably had another fight with Daniel, so she came here first.”
“Yeah. Very likely that brother hurt Camille again.” Elena responded with her voice echoing so much disappointment.
“Call Daniel and let him know Camille is here. He can come over, and you can also introduce Jeff to them.”
The sound of your name echoed in my head as a desperate hope battled a rising tide of dread. I couldn’t figure out which feeling was stronger – was it the hope that I would soon see you again or the dread? Could it be? Could you be the Camille they were talking about? Are you Elena’s sister-in-law, the wife of my fiancé’s brother?
While lost in those thoughts, somebody pushed open the bathroom door. It was Elena. She handed me a pair of shorts and a tank top in the bathroom.
“Dad, after you take a shower, could you please go to the terrace? I need to talk to Camille in our room.”
“Camille?” I asked, puzzled.
“Yes, my sister-in-law. I don’t think you know her… or… did you meet someone earlier?”
“No, I only saw those people at the nearby store.”
“Okay, daddy. Go ahead and do your thing. I need to talk to Camille now. She won’t stop crying. It seems like she has a serious problem, probably because of my brother. But something else happened to her on her way here, and she doesn’t want to say it.”
I could only manage a simple nod for Elena as dread tightened in my stomach. Seeing you was a desperate wish, but not under that roof. What if you, Camille, were the one they spoke of? The thought terrified me. Could facing you here be worse than our secret coming out? We could play strangers, a flimsy disguise for the secret we shared. But what if you shattered the pretense, confessing to your sister-in-law those forbidden moments we shared in the hut? The possibility suffocated me with guilt.
I sat on the terrace, overwhelmed by the possibilities ahead of me. I couldn’t shake off the anxiety about the presence of Camille. My usual methods to calm my mind seemed ineffective, but I persisted, trying to regain my composure. Looking around, I noticed the rough planks that made up the terrace floor and the vividly colored potted plants on the ledge, a stark contrast to the darkness of the inner turmoil I was feeling. I had been so preoccupied with exploring Sagada and sharing my experiences on social media that I hadn’t noticed these details earlier.
“Jeff, just stay here for a while.”
That was Elena’s mother. She placed a cup of coffee on a wooden side table before me.
“I’ll go to Elena and Camille in the room. Daniel is also on his way. You can all talk later.”
“Alright, mot…mot…”
“Son, don’t hesitate to call me a mother. Or mama. It’s okay. You and Elena are getting married.”
“Ha… uh… Yes… okay, mama. Thank you.”
“I just hope you love my daughter, be faithful to her. Please don’t hurt my youngest.”
“I… I promise, Inay. I will love and take care of Elena.”
Guilt ate at me as I tried to make a promise I was afraid I couldn’t keep. Elena’s mother’s kindness highlighted my deceit. The rain pounding on the roof matched the chaos in my mind. Every regret hit me like a downpour—the forgotten umbrella, the postponed plans, and the encounter that now filled me with dread. I desperately wished to return and erase the meeting that started this turmoil in my heart. With my mind and heart, I was at peace. But no matter how much I regret it, what happened won’t change. My decisions were wrong, and I had to face the consequences of those mistakes.
On the terrace, I held the forgotten coffee, now lukewarm. My future mother-in-law’s kindness felt like a cruel joke as I paced. Was Camille really here? Unable to stand the uncertainty, I went back inside. Our room’s door was partly open, inviting me in. A thin curtain hid the inside, muffling sounds. But I heard a sob, making me sick with worry.
I didn’t want to wait any longer. It’s killing me softly. I decided to go in. If you were really inside, I had to know.
Driven by that desperate need, I reached for the partly open door. But a car horn blared even before I could pull the door open. The interruption snapped me back, and I retreated a step. The insistent honking escalated, urging me into action. That could be Daniel. There’s nobody else expected to come.
The honking escalated into a frantic barrage. So, I had to race outside and open the gate. A black car with its doors and bumpers splattered with mud glided into the driveway. I retreated to give its driver more space to maneuver.
After parking, the driver got out… it was Daniel. That was the first time I saw it in person.
“Jeff? Are you Jeff?”
I nodded at him as I said “yes” and offered a handshake. He towered over me slightly, his frame solid and athletic. Instead of taking my hand, he embraced me.
“I’m Daniel, Elena’s brother. Damn… no wonder my sister fell in love with you. You’re handsome, and you’ve got a great physique. Looks like you live at the gym.”
“Not really, bro. I usually work out at home. You have a great built yourself.”
“Ah… just from hard work in the fields.”
The terrace buzzed with the distant chirping of crickets as we finally met face-to-face. I had previously seen their family photo on Elena’s Facebook cover page, taken when their father was still alive. It was the only picture Elena had with any of her family members. Daniel exuded a quiet intensity, starkly contrasting Elena’s gentle nature. While I navigated the social media world for my vlog, Elena rarely ventured there. In fact, Miguel, according to her, was a digital ghost – no Facebook, no Instagram, just a phone for the bare necessities. “He’s not a gadget person,” Elena had said, a hint of amusement in her voice, “more of a… gun person.” Her offhand remark left me with a lingering question – was that a playful exaggeration or a glimpse into a world I wasn’t prepared for?
I inquired if Daniel wanted coffee.
“Coffee? Perfect! Although, wait a minute… I just remembered I grabbed a bottle of wine on my way over. Are you in for a switch? I’ll grab it in a second!”
A cold dread settled in my gut as another of Elena’s offhand comments echoed in my mind: her brother drank wine for breakfast. Oblivious to my growing unease, Daniel didn’t waste a breath waiting for my reply. With a muttered excuse, he was already striding towards his car, the clink of glass promising a night far stronger than I’d bargained for. My stomach lurched – the thought of hard liquor sent a familiar tremor through me. I was a lightweight, unlike Daniel, whose casual gait suggested a seasoned tolerance. The prospect of a drinking session, especially with someone who might consider breakfast wine a tame indulgence, filled me with a potent mix of apprehension and a bizarre, desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight wouldn’t be as bad as I feared.
“Alright, put down the coffee. Shot glasses, check! I knew we might need them. Just got to find some nibbles, and then we can get started.”
Daniel returned, a bottle of wine clutched triumphantly in one hand. The other held a black leather clutch bag. He plunked the wine down with a dull thud, but the bag was carefully placed beside it. From what I heard from Elena, I was almost certain it was a gun.
“Where’s my mom and Elena? Is Camille here?”
“They’re in the room, talking.”
“Looks like I’m back in the doghouse. Thanks to Camille. Of course, they’ll all believe the little angel. Guess I’m public enemy number one again.”
I just listened to Daniel.
“That woman can be stubborn as that carabao I use on the farm. I told her to fly back to Italy in February of this year, but she did not. Then the lockdown hit in March, and now she’s stuck here. Damn Covid. Our savings are dwindling, and who knows if she even has a job to return to.”
“The situation is really tough right now, bro. Elena and I were told it might be two more months before we can return to our company. So we’ll stay here for now.”
“Is that so? That’s good, so our mom will have company here. Our female cousin, caring for her, eloped just last week. And my other sister, who’s also in Italy, won’t be back until the end of the year. She’ll definitely be here for your wedding with Elena.”
“Oh, there you are, Daniel.”
That was Elena’s mother, who suddenly appeared behind us.
“Hello, ma. I just arrived.”
“Wine again, Daniel? Elena said Jeff isn’t used to drinking.”
“That’s why I’m starting to train him now. By the time their two-month vacation is over, my brother-in-law will be used to hard drinks. How are you, ma?”
“May God bless you. And I hope He makes you a good person. Oh, Daniel.”
“What did Camille tell you this time?”
“You, stupid good-for-nothing man. Explain it to me later.”
“See, brother!” Daniel addressed me. “Nobody loves me here. Everybody hates me.”
Elena’s mother’s gaze snagged on the black clutch bag nestled beside the bottle of wine. Curiosity flickered in her eyes. “What have we here, Daniel?” she inquired, her voice gentle but firm. “Why do you have your gun with you again?”
“Ma, it’s for protection, not trouble. It’s licensed. The neighbor beside my farm has been causing problems, accusing me of encroaching on his land. I can’t let him push me around.”
“I understand but…
“I know you worry, Ma. But sometimes things get messy. I won’t back down from what’s rightfully mine. Nobody can steal what belongs to me.”
After Daniel spoke, I felt uneasy and had a heavy sense of foreboding. “Just be careful.”
My soon-to-be mother-in-law went to the dining area after saying that. Daniel kept on talking. I couldn’t focus on what he said because I was preoccupied with thoughts of you. I kept glancing at the door, waiting to see if the Camille, who was talking to Elena in the room, would already come out.
“Daniel… Jeff… come in. Dinner is ready.”
“Let’s go, Jeff… let’s eat so we can start drinking.” That was their mother’s calling.
My heart hammered against my ribs, echoing the rhythm of my steps on the wooden floorboards. I would finally find out if you were the “Camille” I met in the hut. The question reverberated in my mind like a relentless drumbeat. But what if you were?
“Oh, Daniel… call Elena and Camille from the room. Tell them dinner is served.”
“Okay, ma.”
Daniel went to the room. I didn’t know if I felt scared or excited while waiting to see who would come out of the room.
“Hey… Jeff! Why are you staring at the room door so intently?”
“Huh? Oh, it’s nothing, mama.”
“There’s no ghost coming out of the room, so don’t be scared.”
“Sorry, mama. It’s just that… it suddenly reminded me of the door in our apartment in Pasig. I’m wondering if I locked it or not.”
“Just call the landlord and have them check it.”
“Ah. I’ll call later.”
That’s another lie. I have already told so many of them since we met. I wondered how many more I would have to fabricate because of you.
I kept asking myself why the “Camille” inside hadn’t come out of the room. I felt increasingly restless. The longer I wait, the worse it will become.
“Have a seat, Jeff. Just relax.”
Embarrassment flooded my cheeks. I hadn’t even realized I was still standing. “Yes, Mom,” I mumbled, sinking into the chair.
Elena’s mother beamed. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you, Jeff. Having you and Daniel here with Elena makes this a truly special evening. I wish my daughter in Italy could be here too, and the whole family would be together.”
“It won’t be long before we’re all under one roof, Mom,” I assured her, forcing a smile.
Her smile faltered slightly. “Of course, of course.”
Elena emerged from the room, a flicker of concern in her eyes.
“Oh, why only you?”
“Daniel’s talking to Camille. They’ll be out in a moment.”
The anticipation dragged on, making me even more anxious.
“Alright, let’s wait for them. Serve Jeff some mushroom soup; he might be hungry.”
“Oh, Dad, it looks like you and Mom are getting close.”
Elena’s mother looked at me and smiled.
“What else did Camille tell you?”
Elena glanced at the room before speaking.
“Mom, Daniel wants Camille to return to Italy because he’s dating someone.”
Elena’s mom widened. “Oh, dear heavens! Who is it?”
Elena lowered her voice. “Someone from their barangay, Mom. And… she’s married. An OFW in Saudi.”
“Dios mio! What was your brother thinking? Does he have no shame?” Her voice trembled with a mix of anger and disappointment.
Elena’s mother’s words felt like needles piercing my conscience. I remembered my mother’s frequent advice to think carefully about every decision to avoid future regrets. But it was too late; what’s done is done.
Elena sighed. “The rumors have been swirling around their barangay for a while now, Mom.”
“What a mess. Thank goodness Daniel can’t have children. Otherwise, who knows what kind of trouble they’d be in.”
“Mom, there’s trouble with Daniel and Camille. Camille wants to leave him. I mean, they’re not even married, so…”
“What!? Oh no, this is terrible!”
“According to Camille, that other woman might be why Daniel hesitates about marriage.”
Elena’s mother glanced at me.
“Oh Jeff, son, I apologize. We’re burdening you with our family problems.”
“Don’t worry about me, mom.”
That was all I could say in response to the shocking revelations.
“Camille’s heartbroken. Daniel has fertility issues that prevented him from impregnating her, yet that didn’t stop Daniel from cheating on her.”
As soon as Elena finished speaking, the room door creaked open, and Daniel emerged. The woman inside, named Camille, her head bowed demurely, slowly stepped out. It was you. My heart skipped a beat as I saw you. You were yet unaware of my presence. As you approached the dining table, I confirmed that you were the same Camille from the hut with whom I shared passionate moments. Now you’re inside the house where I was about to share a meal with my future in-laws. I was torn between running out of the house for fear of whatever might happen should what transpired between us get known and running towards you so I could make you feel how much I missed you. Would we acknowledge each other or pretend nothing happened? The weight of our secret loomed large, threatening to unravel the fragile peace of this evening.
“Mom, here they come.”
“Camille, dear, sit next to me. This is Jeff, Elena’s future husband.”
When our eyes met, you froze. I was over that feeling of surprise, having seen you already earlier. I could say that you felt like cold water was poured over you like I felt earlier. Your reaction did not escape Elena’s keen eyes.
Our eyes met. A jolt passed through you. You appeared frozen. The surprise mirrored the one I felt moments ago when I saw you. The realization flickered across your face as quickly as it arrived, but it wasn’t fast enough for Elena’s watchful gaze.
“Hey, Camille… have you met Jeff before?”
I anxiously awaited your response. I was worried that you might disclose that we met in the hut. Not because of the chance of you revealing everything that happened there, but because I had told Elena that I hadn’t been to that place or met anyone along the way.
“What?… No! This is the first time I’ve seen him.
You were a great actress. The flicker of surprise in your eyes vanished as quickly as it appeared. A cool smile settled on your lips as you offered a hand and a polite, “Pleasure to meet you.” Confusion washed over me. Was this denial? A desperate attempt to protect our secret? I reached out, my fingers brushing against yours. But in a heartbeat, your hand retreated, a flicker of revulsion crossing your face. The gesture was so sudden, so inexplicable, it left me reeling.
Then, you sat directly across from me, acting like I wasn’t there. You ignored me like people do with those they don’t know. You were so cold, completely different from the Camille I met in the hut. There, you were incredibly warm, even scorching. You melted me.
It hurt a bit, but I understood your lie and pretense. If I had spoken first, I would have said the same. Admitting we met at the hut by the mini rice terraces, even without saying what happened between us, would reveal my lie to Elena since I had told her I hadn’t seen that place yet.
“I was surprised by your reactions earlier. It seemed like you both were startled when you saw each other,” Elena said.
“Oh, Elena, with Jeff’s charisma, any woman seeing him for the first time would be startled. Especially now that he’s in shorts and a tank top. And look at my wife; she has the face and body of a beauty queen. Jeff was probably shocked too, thinking you were the most beautiful woman on earth, only to find someone even more beautiful – your sister-in-law, Camille.”
“Oh, there you go again, Daniel. Stop it.” That was Elena’s mom. “Maybe they have met before and just don’t remember when and where, which is why they reacted that way. It happens.”
You kept your head down while listening to that conversation. I noticed Elena looking at you and then glancing at me.
“Alright… alright… Let’s eat,” suggested Elena’s mother.
“Yes, so Jeff and I can start drinking.”
“Guys, perhaps we can, just this once, give thanks before we eat. Let’s also thank God for Jeff’s safe arrival here. Elena, please lead the prayer.”
We all bowed our heads. I noticed you closed your eyes while I was the only one who didn’t. Instead, I kept my head stubbornly raised, and my gaze drifted towards you. I saw you open your eyes. A flicker of movement caught my eye. You peeked open your eyes, seemingly to check on Elena, before gazing at me. Your eyes looked swollen. Your lips curved into a smile, a faint echo of the one you offered me in the hut – hesitant, yet holding a promise of understanding. Despite being forced, your smile lifted my spirits. I smiled back at you and nodded. You smiled at me one more time. You winked a playful spark in your tired eyes before closing them again.
TO BE CONTINUED…
M.A.D. L I G A Y A 