I finished high school and went to the city to work as a maid for a 30-year-old man, then we had a child, but when I GIVE BIRTH to my child, I found out that he was married, his wife returned home on a stormy day and she had…
I am a country girl from Isabela. After finishing high school, I followed an acquaintance to Metro Manila to work. The landlord was a 30-year-old man, calm, living alone in a luxury apartment in Bonifacio Global City, Taguig. His name was Miguel Santos — a technology engineer, working all day, coming home at night.

At first, I only did the work of a maid: cleaning, cooking, doing laundry. But living under the same roof in the middle of a big city, with only two people every day, the loneliness made the long glances, the awkward touches suddenly have too much meaning. One rainy night, he came home late from work, had some wine, I went out to pour him some water — he pulled my hand back.

From that night, everything began.

We did not officially love each other. He did not promise, nor did he deny. I thought that in this city, I had found a safe place. When I told him that I was pregnant, he was silent for a long time, then just said:

“Let me take care of it.”

I believed. Believed like a blind person entering a dark room just because someone told me there was light there.

Nine months later, on the day I went into labor, a bagyo hit Luzon. The rain poured down, the wind howled. The pain was so severe, I did not have time to call a taxi. Miguel himself took me to St. Luke’s Global City. Everything was chaotic — the howling wind, the thunder, the white lights of the delivery room — and then I passed out.

When I woke up, a woman was sitting next to my bed. She was in her thirties, with long hair, her face pale from the rain; she was dragging a wet suitcase. She smiled slightly, placing a stack of papers on the table:

“I am Miguel’s legal wife. We got married 5 years ago. I went to America to study, and just came back today and heard that he had a child with… the maid.”

I couldn’t say anything. Not because he had a wife, but because I understood: I had never been truly loved.

Miguel stood outside the hospital room door, not daring to go in. The woman handed over the phone, turned on the video call; a little girl about three years old appeared on the other end of the line:

“This is my daughter with him. And your child… is the second child.”

Outside, the rain was still falling. The storm outside was not as big as the storm in my heart.

I held my child, quietly completing the discharge procedures when the sky cleared. No one took me home. I returned to my old dormitory, starting a new journey — being a single mother, and learning not to believe in nameless warmth.

A few months later, Miguel texted:
“I miss you. Can I come visit?”
I read… then deleted. Didn’t reply.

I asked for leave, took my child back to Isabela’s hometown to live with Nanay. Every day was a “shift”: changing diapers, feeding, soothing fevers, soothing crying… But between sleepless nights, I found myself living — no longer blind, no longer confused. Nanay was old, she didn’t ask about the child’s father. Maybe she knew, but she chose to remain silent — the way country people do when they see their child stumble and can’t help.

I named my child Araw — the light in the dark night that I had lost.

That New Year’s Eve, I carried Araw out into the yard, watching fireworks explode on the neighbor’s TV screen. My family turned off the TV — afraid that my child would be startled. The weather was freezing, but the warmth from my child’s chest made me feel satisfied.

That night, as soon as I put Araw in the crib, I heard the sound of a motorbike stopping in front of the gate.

I opened the door. Miguel.

He was thinner, his eyes were dark, his jacket was soaked with rain.
— “Are you crazy? Go home.” — I said softly, worried and angry.

— “I just want to see the child for a bit.” — his voice choked.

I hesitated. Pain — yes. Anger — yes. But most of all, fear… fear that I would soften.

I opened the door. He looked at Araw for a long time. Didn’t say anything. Just sat, his eyes distant. Then he took out a red envelope:

— “I can’t make up for anything. This is the money I gave Araw.”
I shook my head:
— “You once said ‘let me take care of it’, and the price is a fatherless child, a mother who is rumored to be ‘pregnant without a husband’. You don’t need to worry anymore.”

He lowered his head, not arguing. Then he pulled out another set of documents:
— “Annulment and Affidavit of Acknowledgment of Paternity. She signed it too. I know it’s late… but I don’t want Araw to grow up without a father.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I only said one sentence:

— “Then be a father — not with words, but with actions. Not today, but for life.”

He left right after that. No holding, no begging.

I have not forgiven.

But from that day on, Araw had someone take him to get shots at the barangay health center, had milk sent regularly every month, had a man standing far away watching his child learn to walk for the first time, then turned away in silence.

I don’t need a man by my side.

But if my child can have a real father —
— I will wait to see if he has the courage to be a father, the way I was strong enough to be a mother.

That year there were no fireworks. But I know: a light is returning