My sister and I have known each other for 3 years, I have been very kind to her, but today on the street I saw her happily and cheerfully with a man older than me, I immediately rushed over and then…
My name is Ken, 28 years old, living in Quezon City. Ate Mara and I have known each other for 3 years. In those 3 years, I have cherished her like a treasure—not letting her lose to anyone.

This afternoon, on the EDSA – Ortigas line, in the middle of the bustling crowd, my heart felt like it was being squeezed: Ate Mara was chattering along with a strange man, in his 40s, wearing a neatly ironed shirt, wearing an expensive watch. Occasionally, he would raise his hand to shield her from the sun—an intimate gesture that pierced my eyes.

In a moment of losing control, I rushed over, my voice harsh:
“Ito ba ang kapalit ng tatlong taon? What is this, sister?”

Passersby stopped and whispered. Mara was stunned, his face pale. The man curled his lips:
“Huwag kang makialam. Our private matter.”

The atmosphere was tense as a string. Everyone thought there would be a fight. I trembled with anger, took a deep breath, and prepared to say more when—

Ten minutes later, the sound of police sirens blared and… the PNP siren resounded. A patrol car braked sharply to the curb. Two policemen got out, walked straight to the man, and spoke in a firm voice:

“Mr. Vergara, you are under arrest for fraud – estafa and appropriation of property according to the complaints of many victims. Please cooperate.”

The street was in chaos. His face was pale, stammering in denial. Mara burst into tears, covering her face. I stood there, stunned: I didn’t know whether to be relieved that she hadn’t been betrayed, or more hurt when I realized that all this time, she had been hiding an even more terrible truth.

As the police handcuffed Vergara and read her rights, a female police officer turned to us:
“You two may need to go to Mandaluyong Police Station to report. This case involves an investment scam. If you ever transferred money or signed any documents, please bring proof.”

Mara shook her hand and said:
“Ken… I’m sorry. I thought he was the one who helped me get the money. I was afraid you would worry, so I hid it…”

I choked up. In my head, a series of pieces were playing out: the times Mara hurriedly answered the phone, the “short” appointments at BGC, the transfer receipts that she said were for her sister’s tuition payments. Now they all came together into a scary picture.

At the station, Mara testified: Vergara promised compound interest, introduced “projects” in Makati and Pasig, and even spread photos of luxurious offices to create trust. She made a large deposit, then continued to pay monthly installments. Recently, he said he needed to meet in person to sign the “disbursement”—and that was the reason for today’s “walk.”

The police gave a list of victims: office workers, ride-hailing drivers, even sari-sari stall owners—people who bet their hard-earned money on the promise of “double your money.”

I looked at Mara—her eyes were red, her shoulders were shaking. The anger in me… suddenly receded. It wasn’t betrayal, it was falling into a trap. But another truth also stabbed into my heart: three years of trust between us had been punctured by the secrecy.

After taking Mara’s statement, I took her out of the headquarters. The Makati night lights were on, and cars were still weaving through each other as if nothing had happened. Mara said softly:
“Ken, I… I don’t know where to start apologizing.”

I took a deep breath and spoke slowly:
“Mara, I’m not mad that you met him. I’m mad that you’re in this mess alone. Next time, don’t be alone—either with me or don’t continue.”

She nodded, tears streaming down her face:
“I promise. From now on, everything is clear.”

I don’t know what the future holds—whether love can be mended, whether trust can be rekindled. But I know one thing: tonight, we chose to tell the truth. And sometimes, the painful truth is the first step to not hurting anymore.