I was fed up with my marriage and wanted to leave my wife, but my mother strongly opposed me, the reason she gave made me feel choked up…

“I want a divorce. Not because of adultery, not because of violence… but because I can no longer stand my wife’s indifference, laziness and cruel indifference. I had prepared everything – divorce papers, words and even a plan to live alone. But my mother – nearly 70 years old, weak in the legs and dim in the eyes – was the first to strongly object.

She did not cry, did not scold. She only said one sentence, which made my heart ache:

‘He once saved my son’s life… but you probably don’t remember.’

I was stunned. And my wife – the person I thought no longer had any love for me – stood there… her face held high, cold but her eyes were red.”

My name is Miguel, 35 years old, a construction engineer. My wife – Maya – is an elementary school teacher. We have been married for almost 7 years, with a 5-year-old son. From the outside, everyone says we are the “model family” in Quezon City. But only those involved know that behind that facade is a tiring, exhausted, and frighteningly cold marriage.

I no longer love Maya. There were even times when I thought I hated her.

Maya used to be a gentle, smiling, and thoughtful girl. But after giving birth, she seemed to have changed: she was often irritable, complained about being tired, and paid little attention to me. At night, she would lie down and hug her phone; she would leave the child to me to take care of. The house was sometimes clean, sometimes messy, and family meals became less and less frequent.

When I came home from work, I just wanted some peace. But what I got was indifference, coldness, and the feeling of being a stranger in my own home.

I tried to talk to her many times – some gave gentle advice, some were tense. The only response was a glance or a suffocating silence. Once I had a fever and lay down on the bed. Maya gave me medicine and went back to sleep without asking. The 4-year-old boy at that time wiped my forehead with a towel. I looked at the ceiling, tears streaming down my face. I thought: “What is the point of living like this?”

I started thinking about divorce. Not to be with someone else, but just to live – to live properly.

When I told my mother my intention, she was sitting there chopping vegetables. Her hands stopped….

– Tell me again, Nanay?

– I want a divorce. I’ve had enough, Nanay.

She didn’t say anything. After a while, she sighed:

– There are things you think you can endure, but in fact… you’re forgetting your gratitude.

I frowned:

– What gratitude?

She put down the knife, looked at me, her eyes slow but profound:

– Your wife once saved your life. But I don’t remember…

The words were like a knife stabbing into my chest. I was stunned. Nanay told me, her voice hoarse like the wind blowing through an old cement wall:

“Back then, I had just graduated from school, and I was working in Benguet in the Cordillera Mountains. It was right when a big typhoon hit, pouring rain, landslides. Everyone thought I was dead. Nanay fainted and fainted. Maya – who was my girlfriend at the time – took a long-distance bus alone, traveling hundreds of kilometers from Manila to Baguio, then deep into the mountain towns to look for me. People said that area was dangerous, but she still waded through the mud, checking every missing person list. Finally, she found me – lying unconscious in a makeshift barangay health station, no papers, no one to claim me.”

My head was buzzing.

– But why don’t you remember?

– I had a head injury, temporary amnesia. The doctor said I might not remember a few days before the accident. Maya paid for the hospital bills and completed the paperwork to transfer her child to Manila (Quezon City). She stayed up almost all week. When she got home, she didn’t tell anyone… not even her child.

I sat there silently. My throat tightened. I had never heard anyone mention this. Maya had never said anything either.

The anger in me was like being doused with cold water. I suddenly saw the old Maya again – the little girl with her hair tied up neatly, her eyes sparkling brightly, sitting behind me every afternoon as we walked through the tree-lined streets of Katipunan. Now those eyes were tired.

That evening, I returned home. Maya was cleaning her child’s room. I stood there watching for a while and then asked:

– Do you remember… that trip to Benguet?

Maya paused, not turning her head.

– Nanay told me?

– Yes. Why didn’t you tell me?

– Why did you tell me? So that I… feel grateful?

The words were like a slap. But this time, I wasn’t angry – I just felt ashamed.

I suddenly saw behind Maya’s “heartlessness” was an exhausted woman. A wife who had once spared no expense for me.

So why did she change so much? Could it be… that I was also at fault?

From that day on, my head felt like it was covered in fog. I still lived in that house, still looked at Maya every day, but with a different gaze. No longer just resentment. But guilt and the question: “What did I do to make that woman so tired?”

I began to observe more closely. Maya was not lazy. In the morning, I wake up early to cook breakfast, prepare things for my child, then go to school. In the evening, I cook, bathe my child, teach him, then grade his papers. One day, I was thirsty at 2am, and saw the living room light still on – she had her head down on a pile of test papers.

The painful truth: I chose not to look.

I came home from work, hoping my wife would greet me happily. But did I ever ask her if she was tired from teaching today? I considered taking care of the child as my wife’s responsibility, but did I ever notice that she had back pain, insomnia, or simply needed a hug?

Marriages don’t die from obvious betrayals; they die because we forget how to love and care for the person next to us every day.

I remember the first year after we got married, Maya had a miscarriage. She was almost depressed. As for me, I was so busy with work in Pasig and Makati that I could only stay home for a week, then let Lola (my mother-in-law) take care of her, and I used “work” as an excuse.

I used to consider myself a responsible husband – no cheating, no violence, no drinking. But maybe… I have never been a loving husband.

That day, I took the initiative to do the laundry and cook. Maya walked into the kitchen, stood there looking at me and coldly asked:

– What’s wrong?

– No. I just noticed that it’s been a long time since I cooked for you.

She looked at me, her eyes more bewildered than emotional:

– You don’t need to pretend. If you want a divorce, then do it. I’ll sign.

I walked closer:

– Maya… I’m sorry. I know you’re tired these days. I’m tired too. But… can we sit down?

For the first time in many years, we sat down and talked like two people who used to love each other. No arguing. No interrupting. Just listening.

And then… Maya burst into tears.

Not tears of pain. But tears of relief, like someone finally understood.

She said that over the years she had been lost. After giving birth, her body changed, the pressure of work, and my indifference pushed her away from herself. She had planned to see a psychologist, but was afraid that I would laugh at her – like the time she said “I feel like I’m depressed”, I replied: “I’m just thinking nonsense.”

Maya said that it wasn’t that she didn’t love me. It was that she was too tired, too lonely, and didn’t have the strength to express it.

I covered my face. Guilt rushed in.

The man who had once boldly demanded a divorce because his “wife had changed” now understood: that change was largely due to himself.

We decided not to divorce.

Not because Nanay stopped me. But because I wanted to start over. And Maya – with the little warmth she had left – agreed to give me a chance.

I started learning how to love again: cleaning the house, cooking, taking my wife to work, texting a few times a day. I read books about marriage, watched videos about postpartum psychology. For the first time, I went with my wife to see a counselor at a center in Makati. Not to “save the marriage” for the sake of it, but to understand her.

Gradually, Maya changed. She smiled more, talked to me more. Sometimes, she leaned her head on my shoulder while watching movies – something that had disappeared a long time ago.

We started dating again – the way couples with young children do: sneaking out to eat hot lugaw at a roadside stall when we left the baby with Lola, then stopping by palengke together to buy… a new set of underwear because “that one is too worn out”.

Romance is not about roses or luxury travel. Romance is about being willing to pick up the small pieces of happiness and put them back together – with all your heart.

Not every marriage with cracks needs to be broken. Sometimes, just taking a step back will help you see what is worth keeping, what needs to change.

I used to want a divorce, thinking it was the only way to “free”. Now I understand: marriage is not a place to run away, but a place where you learn to grow up, learn to love someone through the years of change.

And if you’re lucky, the other person is still patient enough to wait for you… like Maya waited for me – from the foggy slopes of Benguet that year, to the late nights in Quezon City today