My name is Lourdes, and I am 59 years old. Six years ago, after becoming a widow, I remarried. My new husband, Miguel, was 28 at the time — 31 years younger than me — and we met in a therapeutic yoga class in Tagaytay.

From the start, people whispered behind my back: “She’s being used.”
They said he was a “boy toy”, only after the wealth my late husband left behind — a 5-story townhouse in Makati, two fat savings accounts, and a beach villa in Nasugbu.
But I chose to believe in what I felt.

Đã tạo hình ảnh

You’ll Always Be My Baby – Part 3: The Trial That Shook the Nation and the Day I Faced the Man Who Called Me His Everything

The courtroom was cold.

Not because of the air conditioning. But because of the silence—the kind that clings to your skin, tightens around your throat, and reminds you: this is no longer a private nightmare. This is a public reckoning.

This was the People of the Philippines versus Miguel Soriano. And I, Lourdes Marasigan, was the victim, the witness, and the accuser.

By the time the trial began, my story had leaked. A woman from the yoga group had tipped off a gossip blog. Within days, it was all over the news.

Every headline screamed the same thing.

Young husband accused of drugging 59-year-old wife for six years to control inheritance.
Sleeping widow wakes up and fights back.
CCTV reveals nightly sedative drops in “loving” husband’s tea ritual.

People were glued to their screens. Some mocked me. Others cried with me. But I didn’t care. Because this wasn’t about what the public thought. It was about what I had lost. And what I refused to lose again.

Miguel came to court in a pale blue polo, hands neatly clasped, looking every bit the respectful, remorseful husband. But his charm didn’t fool anyone this time. His new girlfriend, the one Rosa had seen with him at the Palawan resort, was notably absent.

I was called to the stand. My knees were trembling, but I walked with my head held high. I told the court everything. How we met. How he called me baby. How every night, for six years, he handed me a warm cup of honey and chamomile tea.

And how that tea slowly dismantled my mind.

I showed them the USB with the hidden footage. The moment he dropped clear liquid into my mug. The same routine, night after night. I handed over the medical report from the lab that confirmed the presence of a powerful sedative. I gave them printouts of financial statements. Attempts to forge my signature. Withdrawal slips I never signed.

Then Rosa testified. She showed the court screenshots of Miguel at a five-star resort with a woman who looked no older than twenty-five. The booking was under my name. Paid with my card.

Miguel’s defense was weak. He said I was framing him because he wanted to leave me. That I was bitter. Jealous. Delusional.

But when the prosecution played the kitchen video for the courtroom, the truth became undeniable. The silence in the room was deafening.

Six weeks later, the judge delivered the verdict.

For attempted parricide, illegal administration of sedatives, and attempted financial fraud, Miguel Soriano was sentenced to eighteen years and four months in prison.

Miguel collapsed in front of everyone. His mother cried. His lawyers looked away. And I just stood there, breathing deeply, finally awake.

Outside the courtroom, the press was waiting. One reporter asked me what I wanted to say to other women who might be in the same situation.

I looked straight into the camera and said, “Wake up. Love should never confuse you. If you have to doubt it, if you have to hide your bruises—even the invisible ones—it’s not love. It’s control. And control, disguised as affection, is still abuse.”

Today, I live in a quiet corner of Baguio. I reopened my old art studio, the one I abandoned when I got married. I paint again. Sometimes, women come to paint with me. Older women, with quiet voices and sad eyes. They bring stories of their own, and together, we let the colors speak for us.

I brew my own tea now. Real tea. Honey, chamomile, and no secrets.

And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I no longer see a victim. I see a woman who walked through fire, who broke free from a soft prison made of affection and lies.

I am no longer anyone’s baby.

I am Lourdes Marasigan.

And I am awake.

Every night, Miguel would stroke my hair and whisper:

“My baby who never wants to grow up…”

He’d press a warm mug into my hand — honey and chamomile — and gently say:

“Drink it all, love. I can’t sleep unless I know you’re resting well.”

Six years passed. Not once did Miguel raise his voice at me. He was soft, attentive, always affectionate.

I often thought to myself, “Maybe this is my reward after years of pain. Maybe Miguel is my second chance.”

Until one night…

That evening, Miguel told me:

“You sleep early, love. I’ll be in the kitchen prepping some sweet herbal soup for the yoga group tomorrow.”

I nodded, pretending to drift off. But a strange, sharp instinct in me suddenly ignited. My gut clenched. Something didn’t feel right.

I slipped out of bed, tiptoed down the stairs, and hid behind the kitchen wall.

There, I saw him scoop warm water into my favorite glass mug… and then — he reached into a drawer and pulled out a small amber-colored bottle.

He dropped several clear, odorless drops into the water. Then he stirred in honey and chamomile — like always.

I froze. My heart pounded so loud I was afraid he might hear it.

That night, I pretended to sleep. I never drank the tea.

The next morning, I carefully poured the untouched tea into a sterile container and drove straight to a private diagnostics lab in Manila.

Two days later, the results came back.

The doctor frowned as he read the paper, then looked up at me with visible concern:

“Ma’am Lourdes… this drink contains high doses of a strong sedative. Long-term use can cause dependence, memory loss, confusion… even cognitive decline.”

I sat there, trembling.

Six years.
Six years of honey-sweet whispers…
But every night, he was poisoning my mind.

PART 2: The Face Behind the Smile

I didn’t confront him immediately. I needed to know more.

That evening, I pretended again — smiled, laughed, and drank only half the mug. I flushed the rest down the bathroom sink.

By the third day, I had installed a hidden camera in the kitchen.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

Each night, Miguel repeated the same ritual. But more than that, I saw him open my locked drawer — using a key he wasn’t supposed to have — and photograph legal documents, bank statements… even my will.

I waited one more week. Then I made my move.

It was our 6th wedding anniversary.

I cooked dinner, dressed up, lit candles — just like he liked it.

After the meal, I handed him a gift-wrapped box. Inside, he found a USB drive.

“What’s this, baby?” he asked, smiling.

“Why don’t you watch it?”

He plugged it into the TV.

Footage from the hidden camera played. Silence fell. The color drained from his face.

“You drugged me… every single night?” I said, voice trembling.

Miguel tried to speak, but I held up a hand.

“You wanted me slow. Docile. Easy to manipulate. You thought if I forgot things, you’d eventually own everything.”

“Lourdes, please—”

“You called me your baby. But I was just your target.”

That night, Miguel packed his bags.

But I wasn’t done yet.

The next morning, I went to a lawyer. I had the footage. I had the receipts. I rewrote my will, cutting him out completely, and filed a legal complaint.

Three days later, I got a call.

It was Rosa, one of the ladies from the yoga group.

“Lourdes… I didn’t want to tell you this before. But I saw Miguel — last month. With a young woman. They were at a resort. Holding hands. She looked about 25.”

My hands shook, but my heart did not break. Because this time… I wasn’t blind.

I thanked her, hung up, and smiled.
Let them have each other. Let them burn together.

Epilogue

Miguel tried to beg his way back. He wrote letters. Called from different numbers. Even had the nerve to send flowers.

But I never opened the door again.

I sold the beach house. Donated a portion of my savings to a women’s shelter.
And every night, I brewed my own tea — honey and chamomile — with nothing extra.

No more hidden drops. No more lies.

And when I sipped, I whispered to myself:

“You’re not anyone’s baby.
You’re a woman who woke up… and took her life back.”

Because love that comes in whispers… but poisons your soul — is never love at all.