The Woman Who Was Abandoned But Didn’t Give Up: A Story of Revenge, Forgiveness, and Freedom

My husband’s girlfriend called and said that James had a serious kidney disease, and needed an immediate kidney transplant. I called the hospital… and adamantly refused treatment.

“Miss, he’s your husband!” the woman said in surprise.

My face was emotionless. Instead, I began to take care of his funeral.

It’s a rainy afternoon in Quezon City, rain falling on the glass of the 16th-floor condo. Liana had just finished a long meeting at the company she works for when her cellphone suddenly rang. An unknown number—starting with 0917.

— “Hello?” he asked as he continued typing.

— “Are you the wife of James Santos?” the woman asked, her voice trembling.

Liana frowned. She felt something strange.

— “He’s in the emergency room at St. Luke’s. Acute kidney failure. He needs a transplant right away. I… I’m his girlfriend. Please… help us…”

Liana stiffened. She hung up the call. She immediately called the hospital.

— “I am Liana Santos, legal wife of James Santos. I refuse any kind of medical treatment. I will not sign a consent. If he dies, call me for the body.”

After the call ended, her hands were shaking. But no tears fell.

James—a prominent professor at UP—was praised as the “ideal husband.” They were together for ten years, he was the one who supported the family, saved for a house and a car. But James, behind his respectable image, had a hidden hooker.

Liana had a hunch for a long time—especially since James always came home late, and his cellphone was always on his back. But she tried to believe it: “Maybe he was just busy.”

Until one night, he read an undeleted message:

“I miss you so much. We’ll be in Baguio next week. My wife has a seminar.”

That’s when he finally gave in. He didn’t make a fuss. He canceled his seminar. The next day, he flew to Bacolod—to visit his mother.

— “Son, what are you planning?” the mother asked.

— “I don’t know, Mom. But I can’t forgive him.”

That evening, the caller called again.

— “Sister, please. I know I’m wrong. But James is on the verge of death…”

— “I know.”

— “If you can’t help, I hope you’ll at least… allow us to fix it. You’re still the one who holds the insurance, the medical consent…”

Liana stepped out onto the condo terrace. The road was wet from the rain, and the city was foggy.

— “I’m already making arrangements for his funeral. Don’t call me anymore.”

He hung up the call.

Liana used to believe in love. Ever since college, she’s loved James. They started out as a couple in an apartment in Cubao, sharing instant noodles. She wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t social. But she was smart, strong—and she gave everything for their family.

She still remembered when James broke his leg in an accident. She took care of him for a month. When he wanted to quit teaching because of a rejection for a promotion, she was the one who encouraged him. He gave it his all.

But now? James is still alive—but for Liana, he’s been dead for a long time.

The next day, he went to Arlington Funeral Homes.

— “Has anyone in the family died?” the receptionist asked.

— “Not yet. But it will be soon.”

He chose a coffin, cherry wood in color, with golden lining. The picture frame was also chosen, and the funeral song was: “Bayan Ko.” Ironic, because that was James’ favorite song to sing whenever he was drunk.

He signed the contract. Made a down payment. Everything was fine. It was like a marriage—but in death.

When he got home, there was a man in a white blouse outside the unit.

— “Are you the wife of James Santos?”

— “Yes.”

— “I am the attending physician. Straight to the point—the situation is critical. A donor is needed within 48 hours. You are the closest match.”

Liana was silent. She was given the test results.

— “If you would be willing to donate…”

— “No.”

And he closed the door. Carefully. Without a doubt.

Liana couldn’t sleep. Her cellphone was off, her wifi unplugged, but her mind was wide awake. She went out of the living room. She saw her and James’ wedding photo. She took it, removed the frame, and tore it up. But the paper was thick—as strong as the feelings that remained even though she tried to forget.

Half of James’ face dripped onto the floor.

— “You killed me, James,” he whispered.

At nine in the morning, the hospital called. It was the head doctor.

— “Mrs. Santos, I know you are hurting. But I just ask, not as a doctor but as a person: Can you live with such a decision?”

He is quiet.

— “We can put him on the national donor waitlist. But the window is only 48 hours. And miracles are rare for people like him.”

— “I didn’t kill him. I just didn’t save him.”

— “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just hope… you don’t let anger consume you.”

The call was hung up. Liana stared into space.

That evening, he visited his mother.

— “Mom, why didn’t you let Dad die when he cheated on you?”

The mother smiled.

— “Because if I killed him, I would kill myself too. Forgiveness is not for him. It is for yourself.”

— “But I can’t forgive him. I want him to feel how much it hurts to be left.”

The mother was silent. She entered the kitchen, took out an old box. James’s handwriting from his last days. Liana had refused her father’s last request.

— “Do you remember? And you cried for a whole month when he died. Not because of losing him—but because of losing the opportunity to forgive.”

And that’s when he finally burst into tears. For the first time in a long time.

The next morning, he returned to the hospital.

— “I’m going to donate. Not for him. For myself. I don’t want to live with anger forever.”

That same afternoon, the surgery was performed. When she woke up in the recovery room, the form was there. In the ICU room on the other side of the mirror—she saw James.

Still alive.

A week passed. James woke up. Liana visited him.

— “Liana… sorry…”

— “Enough.” — his voice was cold. — “I don’t care about your explanation. I’m here to finish this.”

He handed over the divorce papers. Without any questions, James signed them.

— “Thank you… for saving me.”

— “You shouldn’t thank me. Thank the little bit of me that’s left… that hasn’t completely died yet.”

Two months have passed. Liana moved to Tagaytay. She opened a small coffee shop with a mini garden. Every day, she waters the plants, makes coffee, and smiles at strangers.

Whenever a customer asks him:

— “Are you alone here? Aren’t you lonely?”

Liana smiled.

— “I feel sadder when I am with someone who is wrong.”

Next to the window, there’s a picture on the shelf. Not a wedding photo.

A plant shoot—which grew from a previously cut branch.